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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26980600">Array of Currents</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonBinaryStars/pseuds/NonBinaryStars'>NonBinaryStars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Compass [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Temeraire - Naomi Novik</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Demane is such a Teen Boy™, Gong Su is chill af, Hammond is the coked-up finance bro we all hated in our 20s, I blinked again and now it's Pemberton, I blinked and Wringe became my new fave?, John Granby doesn't deserve any of this, Multi, Tharkay continues to be the MVP of Emotional Labor, Tharkay is still a stoner, William Laurence is Too Good for This World, because Laurence is a little preoccupied trying to Keep Everybody Alive, but like SOMEBODY has to give these kids The Talk(s) so here we are, can't escape the reference sections, i shall repeat once more: Laurence has had So Much Head Trauma., jk jk it's Gherni, ok nope it's General Chu final answer, such delightful little character interactions, time isn't linear and neither is this fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:08:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26980600</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonBinaryStars/pseuds/NonBinaryStars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Silk like waves, hair like offerings, hands like tenderness -- eyes full of reverence -- "You have never not been yourself, Will." </p><p>Eyes full of reverence. "I like when you tell me my stories." </p><p>This fic went from a place to keep my stray thoughts -- mostly answers to internal questions that came up while writing Parts 1 &amp; 2 -- to the actual Part 3 of the Compass Series.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tenzing Tharkay &amp; Everybody Else, William Laurence &amp; Tenzing Tharkay, William Laurence/Tenzing Tharkay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Compass [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>325</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Triangulation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Triangulation ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Janus loves his country</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><br/>
*** <br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Darby, sir, but Janus they call me,” said the old seaman, “on account of a surgeon we shipped in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sophie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> a learned bloke, saying I saw both ways like some old Roman cut-up by that name; and there I would be still, but my girl in the city losing her mum, and taking sick, and her with three, four mouths to feed.”* </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Janus </span>
  <em>
    <span>certainly</span>
  </em>
  <span> did not need to volunteer so much information -- and it was clear that he did so because, having seen that at least one of them was both a Navy man and educated besides, he assumed they would catch his meaning: Janus, after the god of doorways, who would still be on the ship with his fellows if not for his woman in England. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind Janus’s back, Tharkay and Laurence glanced at one another sidelong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence’s mouth quirked. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Which of us piqued his interest, do you think? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay gave a slow blink. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You, obviously. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence raised a quizzical brow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay smirked and let his gaze travel </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>over Laurence’s person, slow as honey, not quite lecherous: from the top of his gleaming hair to the Cupid’s bow of his lips -- lingering on his broad shoulders and muscled chest, his capable hands and well-formed thighs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You cannot be serious; just look at you, William Laurence. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then -- his breath caught -- for Laurence’s eyes were traveling over his face, wide and earnest; playful, yes, but openly hungry nonetheless -- and then Laurence tilted his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at yourself, Captain Tharkay. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, then. Nice to know that </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>could still give as good as he got. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay rolled his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’ll see. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Janus was turning around to address them once more, and as he spoke he looked from Tharkay to Laurence and back like a man who had just been seated at a feast of untold delights and could not decide which to -- ahh, it was now </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>clear in which direction his thoughts lay -- and frankly, Tharkay thought with a wry smile, who could blame him? </span>
  <span>Tharkay felt rather than saw the flush rise in Laurence’s face, and elbowed him without looking: </span>
  <em>
    <span>call it a draw. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>no one:<br/>no one, ever:<br/>literally not a single person:<br/>Janus: they call me Janus<br/>Janus: lolol get it, *Janus*<br/>Janus: like the god of doors<br/>Janus: because i swing both --<br/>Tharkay/Laurence: YEAH WE GET IT</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Elusion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I edited this one to Breadcrumbs by Jamila Woods because it fits in a way that kills me softly</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Elusion ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Laurence casts a net </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Being -- apparently -- a member of the Imperial family as he was, Laurence had been presented with a staggering array of perfumed soaps, powders, and oils with which to administer his toilet, when he’d finally ventured to request a shaving-kit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had never been one for much fragrance; after all, the demands of a life at sea were often not particularly conducive even to maintaining basic hygiene, much less indulging such frivolities. He had always maintained his person and effects with utmost fastidiousness, of course, but the variety of scents others applied to themselves had never particularly appealed to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he supposed he ought not pick at random. Just a soap for his skin and oil for his hair -- was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much</span>
  </em>
  <span> to ask? His every decision seemed to be so fraught, these days -- his aviator comrades continued to look at him with faint concern, as if he were a badly loaded cannon -- trying </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> hard not to upset him that they were rather accomplishing the opposite: what could he </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> have done that was even now still so unspeakable? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence sniffed cautiously at each packet and vial in turn, intending at first to pick the ones with the least possible perfume -- but then he came to a soap which smelled -- sharp, stiff? gray-green? -- and which brought to mind the soft rattle of wind through leaves; and warmth, close and dark -- he grasped at it, for the scent was unfamiliar to him: these scraps must be from some lost memory… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning, thunder: the storm in his mind, drowning all thought, lifting the swells -- oh, he could not catch hold of </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>any wisp, any fragment -- he pressed his hands to his eyes -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe, you must breathe, Will -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Was someone speaking…?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. No, it was just another piece of the self he had lost, rising to the surface like so much flotsam only to be sucked back into the depths the instant he reached for it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that Laurence sampled the scents with rather more enthusiasm, hoping for another… and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> there was a vial of oil which smelled of… flowering vines? It was -- not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> tropical, certainly not a fragrance readily identifiable to him -- he had perhaps come across something similar, in Egypt…? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inhaled again, for a sense of deep calm had come over him: yes, the oil smelled of unfamiliar flowers, but they were flowers which smelled to him all the same of safety and relief, of relief and deep foundations, yes, of foundations and trust and… and the sound of water? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he groped for the memory, it was gone; he dived after it -- no,</span>
  <em>
    <span> no, please stay, stay with me… </span>
  </em>
  <span>oh, he was drowning, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>drowning… </span>
  </em>
  <span>the storm was blotting out all thought, all cognition, all stability of self… </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The soap, the oil -- these scents calmed him, made him feel as if -- as if he might be all right. As if he were </span>
  <em>
    <span>already </span>
  </em>
  <span>all right, just as himself, even now, just like this -- and even if it were not true, he could not help but cling to this little piece of comfort, pitiful though it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence placed five drops of the flower-blossom oil at the base of his comb: one precisely in the center, and one each at either edge; and then in between. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One, two, three, four, five. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He combed his hair, tied it back, and did not weep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: so like did Laurence *actually* smell like jasmine and eucalyptus during the rescue or?<br/>A: ehhhhhh little of column A little of column B</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Illusion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This lil' friend had an editing song! And it was Amor a Primera Vista by Los Angeles Azules (and a bunch of featured artists) because Preeti &amp; cumbia go together like chocolate &amp; peanut butter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Illusion ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Preeti conjures a ghost </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*** </strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>“Close your eyes.” He obeyed: sandalwood smoke, cool fingertips, light touches. “Have you done this before?” </p><p>“In other places.” The sound of water, somewhere. “Not like this.” </p><p>“You’ll have to keep your mouth shut,” Preeti said as she worked. “No, not now -- when we get there: your accent will give you away.” </p><p>“I’ll follow your lead,” he promised, “and try not to muck it up.” </p><p>“You had better not!” She wrapped his fingers around the mirror handle. “Open your eyes.” </p><p>Oh, <em>oh… </em>was that <em>his</em> face? But it was so -- so graceful, so <em>elegant… </em>Arjun raised an eyebrow, and the woman in the glass did, too; he smiled, and so did she: yes, it did <em>seem</em> to be his face, but -- but it was somehow both deeply familiar and entirely unknown; at once wholly unchanged and completely new. “You’ve made me beautiful,” he whispered, transfixed.  </p><p>“It wasn’t hard -- you have nice lines, and excellent hair,” said Preeti, casting a critical eye over her handiwork. And wasn’t it funny, that her matter-of-fact assessment meant more to him than all the flowery compliments in the world? “Do you have a name?” </p><p>Arjun could not take his eyes off himself: oh, stars above and fire within, he looked exquisite; he looked<em> enchanting, </em> he looked <em> lovely, </em> he <em> … </em> oh, <em> ohhhhh, </em> he looked -- he looked like, he looked like -- like --  “Lumanti.” </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: what kinds of cool spy shit did Preeti and Arjun get up to?<br/>A: idk, all kinds, definitely the shapeshifting kind though</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Fixation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not all of these lil' vignettes have an editing song, but this one definitely did, and it was Tides by St. Beauty feat Deanté Hitchcock, which is my favorite ode to oral sex of all time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Fixation ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Laurence goes larking </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>***</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind was howling, the generals were jabbering, and Captain William Laurence was doing his best to pay attention. He was no stripling boy, to be distracted by a flash of bare skin and a soft whisper, and yet --</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- you may undress me -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes were on the maps, but his mind was in their tent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slick silk and a fluttering heartbeat beneath his palms -- that trembling strength, the heat coming off his body… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maps. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maps, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Napoleon, and the war, and the Russian commanders… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Russians, who had taken one look at Tharkay in those glorious robes and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cowered</span>
  </em>
  <span> in shame -- as they </span>
  <em>
    <span>should, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like voles beneath the falcon’s eye: before his proud shoulders and fierce mien, before his piercing gaze and cocked brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>strength</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The queue Laurence had braided, falling straight and true as a plumb-line down the center of his back -- gold ornaments dangling </span>
  <em>
    <span>precisely</span>
  </em>
  <span> above narrow hips, swaying and bouncing with each stride… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>maps. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>war. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>command meeting. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The conference which would never have happened, had Tharkay not both conceived and executed the plan which had saved them all -- had he not put himself at such great risk, in his weakened state… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ohhh, Laurence wanted to walk for </span>
  <em>
    <span>miles,</span>
  </em>
  <span> following that braid: the arrow which had guided him through burning cities and underground rivers, across deserts and mountains alike -- flanking that unrelenting stride, falling in step with him, guarding his back -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ohhhh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and when they had made it inside the tent, and Tenzing had put out his hand, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>hand -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nobody</span>
  </em>
  <span> saw, nobody saw except </span>
  <em>
    <span>him;</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tharkay </span>
  <em>
    <span>showed</span>
  </em>
  <span> no-one but him the slivers of his vulnerability: all the pain he carried, the nightmare memories which had brought him to the verge of collapse -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what an honor to be trusted this way: to be the one who might hold and support him, might carry him through the curtains and place him gently in the camp-bed… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Russians, maps, dragons. </span>
  <em>
    <span>War. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence was at war with himself. On the one hand, he knew very well that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be paying attention to the other commanders. On the other… this meeting was </span>
  <em>
    <span>useless. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Worse than useless: it was actively </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasting his time</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- oh, how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>loathed</span>
  </em>
  <span> conferences which aims could more effectively have been achieved by dispatch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay had -- Tharkay had </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiled, </span>
  </em>
  <span>when Laurence picked him up. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile, </span>
  </em>
  <span>soft like starlight, smoothing the creases from his brow -- his </span>
  <em>
    <span>face, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way his face had </span>
  <em>
    <span>relaxed</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the easing of pain, as he melted against Laurence’s chest -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>you were brilliant : I was, wasn’t I… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it felt good to ease Tharkay’s pain. It was deeply grounding, centering at his core, like -- like bathing Temeraire, or repairing his gear: one thing Laurence could do which he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> was good, was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing -- labors which had an immediate and undeniable purpose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The meeting was </span>
  <em>
    <span>still -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>why was it not </span>
  <em>
    <span>over yet? </span>
  </em>
</p><p><em><span>You may undress me -- </span></em><span>ohh, there were </span><em><span>so </span></em><span>many</span> <span>ways he might give him ease -- so </span><em><span>many</span></em><span> places Laurence might put his hands, so many places to </span><em><span>touch</span></em><span> him, to rub away his aches, to bring him </span><em><span>pleasure</span></em><span>… </span></p><p>
  <span>Laurence shifted in his seat, using tricks he had not had to employ since boyhood: listing trigonometric functions, converting angles from degrees to circular measures and back, even reciting the opening lines of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Principia -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything to keep his mind on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>maps</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>command</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>war. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the conference was a blur. Laurence left abruptly, almost sooner than was polite, but he did not particularly </span>
  <em>
    <span>care. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind the silk curtains, a brass lamp threw waves of light across -- across Tharkay’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>face,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his face in </span>
  <em>
    <span>repose.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ohh… ochre and ink, umber and gold, rich earth and gleaming sun -- soft lips, and a brow even now still creased, even in sleep… but Laurence could bring him ease. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>bring him ease. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, the strong lines of his face and neck, the braid falling over his collarbone, the warm brown arm thrown over the covers, clutching the blanket to his chest… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to get undressed and into the camp-bed. He had never before considered simply dropping his clothing as he disrobed -- but tonight he wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> his vestments wrinkle, to discard them and leave them where they lay, to toss his shirt and coat away and let them fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t. He was a man grown, and he could valet himself properly. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>could. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He stole another look. </span>
</p><p><span>Ohh, Tenzing, </span><em><span>Tenzing,</span></em><span> blade of truest steel; honed and tempered, lovingly crafted, deadly sharp: Laurence could not quite credit, sometimes, that Tharkay had chosen </span><em><span>him</span></em><span> to trust with his softness, his hurts. There were -- so </span><em><span>very</span></em> <em><span>many </span></em><span>ways Laurence might bring him ease. Oh, how he </span><em><span>longed</span></em><span> to bring him ease…  </span></p><p><span>Finally -- </span><em><span>finally --</span></em><span> he slid between silk sheets, bringing one hand to rest upon the curve of that </span><em><span>marvelous </span></em><span>shoulder.</span> <span>“Tenzing.” </span></p><p>
  <span>Those eyes</span>
  <em>
    <span>...</span>
  </em>
  <span>the sweeping lashes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>absurdly</span>
  </em>
  <span> long; that starlight smile; those </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes… </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Will.” Tharkay raised his arms, arching up toward Laurence’s hand in invitation -- “Have we knocked some sense into them at last?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope so.” Laurence moved in closer, placing his lips at the juncture of ear and jaw and neck: just there, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>at that delicate spot where he was so intricately and wonderfully made, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfectly formed -- “Tenzing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way he </span>
  <em>
    <span>said </span>
  </em>
  <span>things, the way he invited Laurence to </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch</span>
  </em>
  <span> him without apology, without shame… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tenzing.” He smoothed his hands further down, following the lines of Tharkay’s body… “I --” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ohhh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>bare, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was wearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing but his own skin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>beneath the covers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Tenzing.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>Laurence pressed himself all along Tharkay’s side, sliding one hand into his hair, against his scalp. Leagues of warm skin, </span><em><span>oceans</span></em><span> of it -- so </span><em><span>many</span></em><span> opportunities to make him feel good…</span> <span>had he washed his hands? performed ablutions, brought offerings? What had he done to make himself worthy to approach, to touch, to taste? How might he convey his -- his humility, his </span><em><span>gratitude,</span></em><span> to have been granted the privilege of bringing this joy? </span></p><p>
  <span>What had he ever done, to deserve this honor? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ohhh, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>face: </span>
  </em>
  <span>ever that moment of wonder and faint surprise when Laurence took him in hand, as if he could not quite believe -- yes, and then soon that </span>
  <em>
    <span>particular</span>
  </em>
  <span> smile, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile</span>
  </em>
  <span> like the waxing moon, as he relaxed -- arching back again, doing that -- that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing,</span>
  </em>
  <span> with his hips: </span>
  <em>
    <span>rolling</span>
  </em>
  <span> them like ocean swells, with fluid grace… </span>
  <em>
    <span>ohhhhh… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was -- so very </span>
  <em>
    <span>nourishing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the way Tharkay’s body told him </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he wanted: just how to touch him, and where, and how fast or slow -- these were tides Laurence </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew, </span>
  </em>
  <span>tides he did not even need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>in order to read -- just let himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes, feel and respond, just as they did in the field… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed to take his mouth away from Tharkay’s neck: a gentleman did not leave visible marks unasked. And besides, there were </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> many other places to kiss, to taste… he brought Tharkay’s hand to his lips: soft, soft, oh -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> softly did he kiss these still-healing places…  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ohhh, Tenzing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tenzing: </span>
  </em>
  <span>pattern-maker, truth-keeper, pain-bearer. His body told the story of it -- truths written on his skin, in his sinews and bones, down even to his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fingertips</span>
  </em>
  <span>: so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Laurence -- Laurence could not take it away, no -- the scars would always be there; the wounds would always have been inflicted -- but he might </span>
  <em>
    <span>add</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the story. He might bring </span>
  <em>
    <span>new</span>
  </em>
  <span> memories to these sites: memories of pleasure, of ease, of joy -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence opened his lips, sliding those strong fingers into his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay’s eyes flew open -- surprise, wonder, disbelief. Ohhhh, Laurence wanted to draw right over these maps, these lines, these scars: even now, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tharkay still expected </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain… oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he would, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> paint new contours onto these places, for Tenzing deserved </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasure, </span>
  </em>
  <span>here in his body -- only pleasure, only joy, from his fingertips all the way down to his toes, and right back up to the ends of his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran his tongue over the pads of Tharkay’s fingers, watching his </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>wide and startled -- watching his lashes flutter as he -- he </span>
  <em>
    <span>moaned… </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Hnnnnnnggggggh.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It rose within him before he could stop it -- “Mmmmmmmmph,” Laurence whined, high in his throat. Those </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes… </span>
  </em>
  <span>oh fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> good to look into his eyes, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he brought him… </span>
</p><p><span>Down below Laurence used his thumb, his wrist -- </span><em><span>right</span></em><span> there, </span><em><span>just</span></em><span> like that, yes, oh yes, he knew these currents; he could ride the flow of these rolling hips -- and </span><em><span>oh, </span></em><span>his hand was growing </span><em><span>slick, </span></em><span>with the evidence of Tharkay’s pleasure: evidence that Laurence was making him feel </span><em><span>good.</span></em> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, there were so many ways he might bring him ease, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>many… but right now, with Tharkay’s most tender parts in his hand and those clever fingers in his mouth, Laurence’s mind was filled with only one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tenzing,” he said, and -- and made his mouth and hand move in tandem: dipping, plunging, circling the tips; hoping his meaning would be clear. “Tenzing, may I?” Oh please, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” The look in those wondrous starlight eyes undid him: </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laurence had to grip himself to keep from-- “Yes, yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So</span>
  </em>
  <span> many places to touch, to kiss, on the way down: behind his ear, the pulse at his neck, the hollow of his throat -- scraping his teeth over one dark nipple, his fingers on the other -- Laurence put his lips to Tharkay’s ribs, still splintered beneath the skin -- moved to his belly, his navel, the line of dark hair down below -- and then settled between his legs, running one hand up the great gouge of a scar from Istanbul to lift Tharkay’s knee over his shoulder -- pressing his face to the crease of his hip, inhaling deeply -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the </span>
  <em>
    <span>scent</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him, like earth and sea: Laurence’s mouth was quite literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>watering, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and wasn’t that just something? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a scar here, too -- a scar to which Laurence could not help having been made sensible, in the mountains, though he had not quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span> it in its entirety -- but now the lamp was still casting gold across Tharkay’s skin, and Laurence looked.  </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p><span>Oh,</span> <span>Tenzing, </span><em><span>Tenzing…</span></em><span> pain-bearer, sprezzatura, brightest star. So much pain -- there was </span><em><span>so much pain, </span></em><span>here… and Laurence could bring him relief, he could bring him </span><em><span>true</span></em><span> ease, he could bring him </span><em><span>pleasure… </span></em><span>he put his lips to the scar, then his tongue. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh </span>
  </em>
  <span>ff-- ahhhh,” said Tharkay. His head fell back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence opened his mouth and let himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste… </span>
  </em>
  <span>God, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> this</span>
  <em>
    <span> -- this,</span>
  </em>
  <span> this taste of dark earth and wet salt -- this perfect sense of immediacy, of invasion, of being unable and indeed unwilling to focus on anything but expanding himself to take him in, to give him joy… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahhhhhh…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>there it was: that particular chord in his voice, smooth as pearl, which drew forth from Laurence an answering harmony… it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> good, to do this: to make himself soft, gentle, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tender -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>tend </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Tharkay with nothing but himself, just as he was: his lips, his tongue, his hands… he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>bring</span>
  </em>
  <span> this pleasure, he could give him this -- oh, it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>so good</span>
  </em>
  <span> to give him this… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, hahhhhnnnnnmnmnmnnngggghhhhh,” said Tharkay, and Laurence breathed -- and then, exhaling, relaxed his jaw </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> a little more, watching those eyes, hoping for </span>
  <em>
    <span>-- yes -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>look, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>particular</span>
  </em>
  <span> look -- “Laurence, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Laurence</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- that feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you feel so good</span>
  <em>
    <span>…” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking Christ -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>the moan came from somewhere deep within him, muffled as it was by </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tenzing</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his mouth -- his </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste: </span>
  </em>
  <span>brine and clay pressing into him, deeper, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deeper -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>oh, please yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>more… </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laurence moved his hands over </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> many scars: ridges and valleys written into his skin -- from hips to thighs to back to chest: so many places, there was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him, and Laurence wanted to take it all inside himself -- holding him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ministering </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him, piecing together the fragments, transmuting his pain into pleasure -- oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>giving him pleasure; </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tenzing had said </span>
  <em>
    <span>you feel so good -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had said </span>
  <em>
    <span>Laurence, Laurence -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hhhaaaaaaaaannnhh, Will, oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> oh, ohhhhh --” Laurence rutted against Tharkay’s leg at this; he could not help it -- his </span>
  <em>
    <span>name, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his name like that, Tenzing was calling </span>
  <em>
    <span>his name</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it was all he could do to keep from spending himself then and there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was -- nearly ecstatic, to watch his eyes as his expressions moved through transports of pleasure. And then -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh ffffffffffuuuuuu -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laurence moaned once more, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>whimpered: </span>
  </em>
  <span>for Tharkay’s back was arching again, his hips were doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that thing;</span>
  </em>
  <span> they were rolling and Tharkay was -- was </span>
  <em>
    <span>keening</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he arched up, pressing further </span>
  <em>
    <span>into his mouth, </span>
  </em>
  <span>oh, fuck yes -- fuck yes, yes, please -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>fill me, please, fuck, fill me with your self, I want to think of nothing but you: your joy, your ease… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will --” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh fuck oh fuck oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>God just say my name please yes just like that, like I’m good, I want to be so good for you -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will,” </span>
  <em>
    <span>please please yes oh, oh please let me taste you, I want to -- fuck, please, yes -- “Will,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m --”  Oh holy god </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>his </span>
  <em>
    <span>name, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his </span>
  <em>
    <span>na-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>ohhhhhh, oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh -- oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck yes please yes yes give it to me give it to me make me take it -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>the taste of his pleasure, the taste of Tenzing’s pleasure was </span>
  <em>
    <span>filling him</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>called his name</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he -- as he -- ohhhhhhh fuck, he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste Tenzing calling his name… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence’s hand moved on its own -- ohhhh fuck, he wanted this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yearned</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this, and Tenzing was </span>
  <em>
    <span>giving it to him -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>it took scarcely three strokes -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want, I want your joy I want your bliss I want your ease, fuck, fuuuuuck -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>he whined again, and before he knew it Laurence was shuddering -- clutching at Tharkay’s rolling hips, taking him right down to the root, drinking in the evidence of his pleasure -- </span>
</p><p><span>-- oh</span> <span>fuck, </span><span>his</span> <em><span>pleasure, yes -- </span></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- make me take your pleasure -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- fuck, yes, I want -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I, I, I want, I want, I, I -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>| | | | </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>|  | | | | | | |  || \ \ | | | | | | | | | | | | </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>|   | | | ||| |||      || |  | | | |  || | | | | | |\ |  |  | </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>||||||  ||| | || | | </span> <span>| | ||</span> <span>|| | | ||  |</span> <span>| | </span> <span>| | |  |  |</span>  <span>|</span></p><p> </p><p><span>|| | | |\ </span> <span>|” | |  </span> <span>| \ | | \  </span> <span>| </span> <span>|||| ||||</span> <span>||- </span> <span>|</span> <span>|</span> <span> | | ||  |  / </span></p><p> </p><p><em><span>| </span></em> <span>| |  </span> <span>|| | | | | |</span> <span> | /</span> <span>&lt; ||  || || |    | | | | |  </span> <span>|  \</span> <span>| |</span> <span> &gt;||</span> <span>| </span></p><p> </p><p><span>|||</span> <span>| / |</span> <span>| [ \|  |</span> <span>|</span> <span>| |</span> <span>|&gt;</span> <span>‘ </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>| { |    \ | \ ||| || ||| |  \|  \\ || |  | ||    \ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>|| | | |  | | | | | | | | |  | </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>|| |  | |  | | </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>| | | </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>|</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence wiped his mouth with his hand and kissed the root, then the scar, then the tip -- before pressing his face to Tharkay’s belly, arms wrapped all the way around him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tenzing, Tenzing, whose body had gone soft and pliant, whose warmth was seeping into him, easing toward rest… yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this: </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was an honor, to give him this. “Are you well?” He kissed warm skin in the silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>… </span>
  <em>
    <span>silence. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh no, no -- please -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tenzing--?” Laurence needed to see his face </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Light, reflected and refracted in those starry eyes: ohh, the tears had not spilled over, not yet -- but his hands were covering his mouth, his shoulders were rising to meet his ears -- “Oh,” oh, this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laurence recognized this: the abrupt absence of long-held pain, so jarring that it was in itself its own kind of hurt -- “Oh, Tenzing.” He found his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay pulled him in. Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this: </span>
  </em>
  <span>the sudden unfurling of those feelings they kept knotted up tight, folded so small and tucked away so deep it was easy to forget, sometimes, that they were there -- Laurence curled around him, holding him tightly as he dared, winding his braid around one hand. “I am here with you, Tenzing Tharkay.” He kissed the back of his neck, the knob at the top of his spine; he breathed against his skin. “I am here,” Laurence whispered again -- ever their refrain. “I am here with you, I’ve got you: we are here together.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tenzing, Tenzing: pain-bearer, truth-keeper, prince among men. Laurence pressed another kiss to his skin, and breathed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Laurence: this meeting should. have. been. an. email.</p><p> </p><p>me, singing as Maui from Disney's Moana: what can I SAYYYYYYYY except YOU'RE WELCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME</p><p> </p><p>Q: How much did Laurence *actually* contribute to that command meeting?<br/>A: Exactly fuck-all</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Acquisition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Letting the main story simmer for a bit while I get a bunch of these internal questions OUT OF MY HEAD</p><p>** edited to add: ok yeah no this IS the main story, lol. the editing playlist song for this one is Assata's Daughters (Interlude) off of Jamila Woods's HEAVN album) **</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Acquisition ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Sipho ventures to ask</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>Like all of Laurence’s knots, Tharkay’s updo remained secure clear through til morning. </p><p>He was vaguely conscious of Laurence rising sometime near dawn; he fell back into a sort of doze after that, and did not fully wake until Demane and Sipho arrived along with his breakfast. </p><p>Demane stopped short in the doorway, waiting until the attendants had left the steamer baskets on the beautifully carved and inlaid ebony breakfast tray before he spoke. “You look like a lady.” </p><p>Tharkay looked down his nose at him, raising an eyebrow. “Do you not find it the very picture of refinement and elegance, Captain?” he drawled. </p><p>Sipho’s laugh was infectious. “It’s pretty!” He clambered onto the bed. </p><p>Demane followed with the tray, scowling, and placed it over Tharkay’s lap. “Why do it like that if you’re just going to take it down later? There’s no point.” </p><p>“The doing is the fun part.” He lifted one of the bamboo lids in two hands. “Let’s see what they’ve given us today.” </p><p>Demane departed shortly after breakfast; per usual, Sipho lingered, his warm weight a comforting anchor at Tharkay’s side. </p><p>“Can I touch it?” He had been entranced with Tharkay’s hair all morning. </p><p>“Certainly you may,” said Tharkay, inclining his head. “Laurence is a wonderful coiffeur, isn’t he?” </p><p>“Tata Laurence did this?” Sipho’s touch was light, cautious. </p><p>“Mhm. He knows a great many ways to braid things, our Laurence.” </p><p>“He made sandals for us, on the island,” said Sipho. “But these look different.” </p><p>“He’s made them all different patterns. If you look closely you’ll see some have four strands, and six strands, and I believe this one is three --”  </p><p>“Are any of them two?” </p><p>“No, my hair is too slippery to hold a two-stranded twist pattern.” Tharkay looked at Sipho’s hair, standing out from his head in irregular bunches; it had been shorn much closer, in Terra Australis. “Yours would, though, if I am not mistaken.” </p><p>Sipho nodded. “The grandmothers back home would fix my hair like that, sometimes. They used to take turns watching me when Demane was away on hunting trips.”</p><p>“My aji used to fix my hair, too.” सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !   </p><p>“I liked it that way.” Tharkay stayed quiet -- like many children, Sipho tended to say more when given the space to do so, and a listening ear. “Demane doesn’t know how.” </p><p>There was a note like a plucked string in his voice -- piercing and plaintive, quickly tamped down. <em> Oh, </em> Tharkay knew that note; he knew this child; he had <em> been </em> this child. He could <em> see </em> the feelings rolling in waves across Sipho’s face: love, first and foremost -- love, unstinting and unconditional, for those who showed him any amount of affection and care, no matter how mean the portion. Anger, at the unspoken expectation that he ought to be <em> grateful </em> to those same people for having uprooted him from everything he'd ever known; shame, at his own anger; frustration at his inability to just <em> fit in </em> for once; fear that he was losing himself in the midst of it all -- and always, <em> always </em> underneath, the deep and torrential longing for <em> home. </em> </p><p>He wanted to weep for the child he’d been, sometimes; for how their poison had seeped into him so thoroughly that he’d become saturated with it, dripping and rotten. They had been so well-intentioned, <em> so </em> sure of their own righteousness, <em> so </em> certain that they were doing what was best for him by forcing him to cut away the parts of himself which did not fit their picture. </p><p>They had made him forget his language. They had tried to take his <em> name.  </em></p><p>Tharkay could not regain the self he’d lost, no, but he might help <em> this </em> child retain a part of himself, at least. “Well, I know not whether you might be amenable to the idea, dear one, but I should be very honored to fix your hair in any style you like, if you will allow it.” He patted Sipho’s wrist. “Once these hands of mine are healed up a bit, that is.” </p><p>Sipho’s eyes were wide -- as if he dared not hope -- “Do <em> you </em> know how?” </p><p>Tharkay shrugged. “Not yet.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: Did Tharkay leave his hair like that the next day?<br/>A: Lol definitely </p><p>Bonus:<br/>Q: Who’s doing those babies’ hair???<br/>A: NOBODY  😭</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Elucidation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one also had an editing song, and it was the Ellington &amp; Coltrane version of In a Sentimental Mood.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Elucidation ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>a bit of Shoebox Project tribute</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*** </strong>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>“Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” Tharkay moaned. Laurence’s hands were firm on his back; the silk sheets were smooth on his skin; and he had felt clean <em> all day. </em> “Have you finished?” </p><p>“Mm. They’re healing nicely.” Laurence took the ointment and turned away, fiddling with Tharkay’s breakfast -- and lunch, and supper -- tray over in the corner. “I have something for you.” </p><p>“For <em> me? </em>Why, Captain, you shouldn’t have.” He fluttered his eyelashes. </p><p>“You may be singing a different tune in a moment. It isn’t bhang, but…” Laurence turned around, and instead of tea the silver service on the tray was set for -- “Direct from Yarkand.”   </p><p>“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, bless you,” Tharkay said worshipfully as Laurence brought the tray to the bed, placing it over Tharkay’s lap, and settled at his side. “Bless you, bless you ten thousand times, you dear, dear, man. You are a comrade beyond compare, a faithful and ferocious friend, a… a third one --” </p><p><em> “You </em> are ridiculous.” </p><p><em> “ </em>-- resilient rescuer! How much did they give you?” </p><p>Laurence grinned, and nodded to indicate a leather-covered ceramic jar the size of their canteens. “Enough.”    </p><p>Oh, glory be. “I’m going to kill you so that I may canonise you, sweet William, for you are a miracle-worker.” </p><p>“No man lives forever; if I must die, let it be by your hand.” </p><p>“Do you know how to do it? Wait, don’t tell me -- ‘of course, Captain Tharkay: I am a sailor, you know; it is practically a requirement.’ Or no, it’ll be -- ‘of course, for I spent the tender years of my boyhood loading the pipe-bowl of His Grace Duke So-and-So, my mother’s cousin’s uncle, as is the duty of any gently-born youth.” </p><p>Laurence clutched at his chest, falling back against the pillows. “I am slain. Adieu, Captain Tharkay; and fare thee well.” </p><p>“Ahhhh, so which is it?” </p><p>“In fact it was Lord Bennington, my grandfather on my mother’s side, who had me do his when I was a boy.” Laurence said, sitting up once more to busy himself with the slender silver pipe-tools and fragrant resin as he spoke. “He was the only one of my family who loved the sea as I did, and he held it important that I learn the skill before going off to the Navy, for he said…” He sighed. “...that it is every runner’s duty to load his officers’ pipe-bowls, aboard a ship, and he did not wish for me to arrive unprepared.”</p><p>“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooouuuuuuuuuw.” Tharkay drew it out as long as his limited breath would allow. “I astound even myself, sometimes.” It was so very -- very <em> affecting</em>, to watch Laurence’s hands move through the familiar ritual: his fingers were so efficient, <em> so </em> precise, not a single movement wasted -- such fine control…  </p><p>Laurence held a lit taper to the bowl, taking a long pull to drag the flame inward. “Why must you attack me this way?” </p><p>“Well, you <em> did </em> just ask to die by my hand, dear fellow, and you make it so <em> easy.”  </em></p><p>“May my shade haunt you for eternity.” Laurence pulled on the pipe again. “Just to make sure.” The hashish now having been thoroughly and successfully lit, he waved the taper out. </p><p>Tharkay smirked at him. “I pulled you from the Lethe once; I’ll do it again if I must.” He leaned forward. </p><p>Laurence put the pipe to Tharkay’s lips, one hand upon the nape of his neck. “Not too much; remember your ribs.” </p><p>“Thank you for the instruction.” He sipped from the elegant silver stem, looking up at Laurence from beneath his lashes -- <em> the music of water, and the Southern Cross -- </em> oh, the water -- the <em> water -- </em> the memory did not hurt, not even a little bit; for Laurence’s eyes had been on him then, drinking from his canteen with fervor; and were still on him even now, even here -- oh, <em> oh, </em> and then they had gone to the <em> grove…  </em></p><p>Tharkay blinked to break the moment: neither of them was well enough to allow <em> that </em> particular current to rise. He leaned away, exhaling smoke in a soft plume. </p><p>“Whooooooooooooooooooooo…  hhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” His head lolled: every muscle along his spine had begun to un-knot itself, one by one.  “Fucking hell, that’s good.” </p><p>Laurence took another long draw from the pipe in his turn. “You are not wrong.” </p><p>“I never am. Well, rarely. Bring it back here, there’s a good lad.” </p><p>Laurence’s eyebrows flew toward his hairline as he leaned over. “You mean to tell me that there have been times you have made an <em> error in judgement? </em> Perish the thought.” </p><p>Tharkay drew from the pipe again, this time exhaling the smoke through his nose like Iskierka. “I rue the day I taught you sarcasm, Captain Laurence.” </p><p>Laurence grinned, smug as a popinjay, and blew three smoke rings in reply. “‘Take physic, pomp.’” </p><p>“Well-quoted, for a sailor.” Tharkay mimed applause. </p><p>“Ugh, it’s no <em> fun </em> when you congratulate me for it,” Laurence grumbled, and held the pipe to Tharkay’s lips a third time.</p><p>“That’s done me enough for the nonce; any more and I shall begin coughing, I think,” Tharkay said when he was done, settling back against the pillows. </p><p>Those lovely blue eyes were traveling over his bare chest. “A lady’s stays might do you very well.” Tharkay waggled his brows, leering; and Laurence flushed a very deep shade of pink, indeed. “No, I--” </p><p>“See what I mean, about you making it easy? It is an excellent notion, though where we are to find any English ladies --” Ah, now <em> there </em>was an idea -- and he could see that Laurence had had the same one, though not for the same reasons. “Do you think she’d oblige?” </p><p>“I shall make the introduction tomorrow.” </p><p>“I look forward to it.” Mmmmm… Tharkay could <em> feel </em> the tension fleeing his body; oh, yesssss… the pain in his bones was still there, certainly, but he was <em> much </em> less concerned about it, now -- his muscles were loosening; he was floating on waves of silk -- he let his head fall to one side, then the other: it was so much more <em> top-heavy </em> than usual…   </p><p>Laurence was staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes, one side of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “Shall I take that down, and return your hair to its normal state?” </p><p>“I know that look.” Tharkay fixed him with a stare. “You just want an excuse, spider-fingers.” </p><p>The smile spread to the other side, smooth like butter and twice as rich. “It’s so <em> relaxing.” </em> </p><p>“Rub my head like you did last night, my sailor, and you may do whatever you please with what’s on it.” Laurence didn’t blink. “Ah, much better -- make me work for it.” </p><p>Laurence cracked a wholly different smile then, and set the tray aside; arranging himself on the bed so that Tharkay might curl in close, placing his head in his lap. </p><p>Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh <em> yes, </em> yes, yes, <em> yessssssssss… </em>Tharkay’s tongue came unstuck from the roof of his mouth: even the gentle tug of Laurence taking the knot down felt like relief, or comfort, or ease… He threw a knee over Laurence’s shins, rubbed his nose against that sturdy thigh. “I was wrong about you.” </p><p>“Hm?” Those fingers moved over his scalp, untangling, unknotting, untwisting… </p><p>“Remember in Istanbul, when all of your ruffles were feathered?” He put on his most pompous tone. “‘You may go to the devil, sir’ -- I believe that is the most courteous way I’ve ever been told to fuck off in my entire life.” </p><p>Oh, those hands were <em> so </em> good: no more tension, no more <em> hurting, </em> just looseness… just <em> ease… </em> </p><p>“It was <em> so </em> satisfying, to have provoked you to it, and then you had to go and ruin it by <em> apologizing </em> not six hours later, and offering me your <em> hand </em> -- ugh.” </p><p>“Jasmine was blooming in Istanbul,” said Laurence: both realizing and remembering.  </p><p>“Yes.” -- <em> gurgling fountains, trailing vines, a schoolboy smile -- </em> “And then, horror of horrors: you kept your promise, in a way which infuriated me for reasons I cannot begin to explain to you, even now; and worse still -- you trusted me, you <em> respected </em> me, and you led all those in your service to do the same.” </p><p>Sections of his hair were falling loose over his face like flower-vines, still kinked from the plaits and somewhat damp in places from the bath the night before. Laurence smoothed them back. </p><p>“I finally admitted to having misjudged you when I found you’d written to Roland having recommended me for a commission, and expected nothing from me for it.” </p><p>Silk like waves, hair like offerings, hands like tenderness -- eyes full of <em> reverence -- </em></p><p>“You have never not been yourself, Will, for as long as I’ve known you: unflinchingly true to your conscience and character, and ever reaching to strive your stars.”   </p><p>Eyes full of reverence. “I like when you tell me my stories,” said Laurence softly. “They’re the same as I remember, but you -- make them different, like I’m -- they feel so awful, the memories -- but your stories, they feel good, and they’re <em> true, </em>about me.” </p><p>“I’m glad to have been wrong about you.” He rubbed his nose against Laurence’s thigh once more. “But be certain it won’t happen again.” </p><p>“Ohhhh, Tenzing,” said Laurence, and then sang it. <em> “Tenzing, </em> Tenzinggggg, Ten-- <em> zingggggggg.”  </em></p><p>The push and pull of Laurence’s fingers on his scalp was… oh, great glorious stars above, earth and sky and wind and sea, it was positively <em> heavenly…  </em>“Now you’re just playing, aren’t you.” </p><p>Laurence <em> giggled. </em>“It feels so nice on my hands.” </p><p>“Your hands feel nice on it. Wait, did that make sense?” Laurence did not answer, being too busy giggling. “What a pair we are. Put that thing away; we’ll be useless tomorrow if we have any more.” </p><p>“We have not even finished half the bowl,” said Laurence mournfully.  </p><p>“Oh, no.” Tharkay deadpanned. “Whatever shall we do with all the rest.”</p><p>Laurence got up to move the tray, and Tharkay sat up to watch, his hair falling loose around his shoulders in uneven waves. Oh, what a dear man: that familiar straightforward grace; sincere down to the bone, to the marrow, to the <em> guts… </em>After a moment, Tharkay realized that Laurence was staring right back at him. “Yes?” </p><p>Laurence held up his hands to frame a square. “I wish I had half your skill and artistic eye, just for this.” </p><p>“One of the perils of a classical education, I’m afraid.” And <em>oh,</em> his hands, his <em>hands…</em> he could not think about his own hands. They had gotten back his pack, all of his things, but he still had not even <em>looked </em>at the logbook. To go from noting every thought, sketching every new plant or pattern, keeping a <em>record</em> of his life, a silent witness, to <em>nothing</em> -- it was half the reason time kept slipping sideways for him, surely -- sunset and dawn and sunset again… bleeding together all in one, rolling forever into spinning into blurring into… <em>ohhhhhh, </em>that was the hashish speaking. “Will you fetch my log from my pack?” </p><p>“Of course,” said Laurence. “Certainly, definitely, absolutely, with pleasure.”  </p><p>“Now flip to the back,” said Tharkay when Laurence had returned to the bed. “No, the other back.” </p><p>“Right, because you do this,” said Laurence. “Persian -- you keep your logs in <em> Persian, </em> Tenzing.” </p><p>“Not Persian, just Persian <em> script </em> -- the language is another.” </p><p>“And you say <em> I </em> make it easy, O silver-tongued truth-keeper.” Laurence opened the book. “Your sketches are all so <em> good.”  </em></p><p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. “And now you are going to add to them.” </p><p>Laurence recoiled. “No.” </p><p>“‘I wish I had half your skill and artistic eye’ -- how do you think I gained them?” </p><p>“But… what if I’m bad at it?” </p><p>Tharkay rolled his eyes. “You are a master cartographer, Laurence, surely you have <em> some </em> skill already, and you will never know if you do not try. And even if you are, so what? It is good for one’s character, to be a novice at something every once in a while. Five minutes. I shall try to hold still.” </p><p>Laurence sighed, and bent his head to the page, then back up to Tharkay -- then back to the page, and then back up to Tharkay once more… He was clearly trying <em> very </em> hard to concentrate, his tongue sticking out from between his lips -- ever guileless, ever doing his best to do his best… oh, <em> dear </em> Laurence. Tharkay pulled a face, then another, and Laurence rolled his eyes. </p><p>“I truly do not know how you can speak of being a novice at <em> anything, </em> Tenzing; the depth and range of your many skills verges on implausible.”  </p><p>Tharkay shrugged. “I have never had the luxury of mediocrity.” Laurence’s eyes did not leave him. “Nevertheless, I am just a man; certainly there are things at which I do not excel.” </p><p>“Oh, really?” That tongue poked out again as Laurence bent his head back to the page. “Name one.” </p><p>“Do you know,” Tharkay mused. “I honestly cannot think of any.” </p><p>“You may go to the devil, sir.” </p><p>“No, no, you misunderstand -- I’m sure they must <em> exist; </em>I just cannot come up with them at the moment.” </p><p>“You. May. Go. To. The. Devil.” said Laurence. “Sir.” </p><p>Tharkay smiled, letting himself float along to the familiar <em> skritch-scratch </em> of pencil on paper: oh, he had missed even the <em> sound </em> of his logs. The top of Laurence’s head was so <em> complex; </em> his <em> … </em> his hands were so -- so -- fuck, Laurence’s hands were <em> unbroken. </em> They were <em> whole. </em> </p><p>“...chess.” It would not do to dwell on what he could not have. </p><p>Laurence looked up, incredulous. “Pardon?” </p><p>“Chess.”</p><p><em> “You?” </em> That buttercream smile was back. “You, Captain Tenzing Tharkay, tactical and strategic mastermind nonpareil, are bad at <em> chess?”  </em></p><p>“Keep your voice down!” He had a reputation to maintain, after all. </p><p>“But it’s just --” </p><p>“-- I <em> know </em> what it’s just.” </p><p>“And it’s so --” </p><p>“I <em> know </em> what it’s so!” </p><p>“-- and you could --” </p><p>“Of course I <em> could, </em> but <em> why? </em> It’s so <em> boring, </em> and there are <em> so </em> many other, <em> better </em> games, ones with <em> infinitely </em> more interesting possibilities and variations! Chess is so… <em> limited.” </em> </p><p>“Are you saying that because you really believe it?” Laurence was positively <em> gleeful. </em> “Or because you don’t like feeling the novice?” </p><p>“Many things can be true,” said Tharkay loftily. </p><p>“One day, Tenzing Tharkay, we shall have a game of chess.” </p><p>“I look forward to it,” he said with all the enthusiasm of Hercules shoveling shit. “That’s about five minutes, yes? Hand it over.” </p><p>It -- it -- <em> oh, </em> was this how Will saw him? Was <em> this </em> what Laurence saw? Oh…but -- oh stars above, oh fire within, <em> oh. </em> “This is very good, Will.” He handed the book back. “Do another. Two minutes, this time.” Laurence’s eyes widened. “You won’t get better if you don’t practice. Give me your pocket-watch, and let’s have just <em> one </em> more round on the pipe, yes?” </p><p>“‘We shall be useless tomorrow if we have any more’ -- where did I hear that, recently?” </p><p>Tharkay shrugged. “Certainly not me; I’m never wrong.” </p><p>After <em> just </em> the one more round, Tharkay shifted position, flipping his hair over one shoulder to fall over his chest, cradling Laurence’s gold watch awkwardly in his two hands. He looked down at the watch, then back up at Laurence. “Ready?” </p><p>“No,” said Laurence glumly. </p><p>“Excellent. Your time starts...now.” </p><p>The second drawing was even better than the first. “You have a nice sense of proportion,” said Tharkay, looking it over. “Unsurprising; as I said, your cartography skills do you credit, here. But you are too focused on the details -- see how each of the bits looks well separately, but together they are… disjointed? They don’t quite make a cohesive whole.” He gave the book back. “Again. Ten-second poses. Don’t try to capture details -- focus on the, the, the <em> gesture, </em> the shape, the… the whole picture. One minute per page; we’ll do three pages.” </p><p>He grew winded shifting through the eighteen poses, especially with the weight of the pocket-watch. The mere  <em> weight </em> of a <em> pocket-watch… </em>no, no, it would not do to dwell. The three minutes were up. </p><p>“Better,” said Tharkay when Laurence showed him the results. “Much, much better; you are a quick study. See how in the first set you did not even make the full shape, and yet by the third you had time to go back and add texture?” Laurence nodded, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the page. “The value of practice, friend. Ready for a longer one?” </p><p>“Yes.” Laurence took the book back with purpose in his hands and intent in his eyes. </p><p>“Remember, take in the whole picture,” said Tharkay. “Find the shape you’re looking for; start with the major gestures -- make sure they all fit together, that you determine which lines you wish to assign weight and value, before you begin filling in the details.</p><p>“Just a moment; let me find something I can hold for longer than a few minutes.” He stretched out on his belly amidst a sea of cushions, holding the pocket-watch out in front of him. “Begin.” </p><p>The way Laurence was <em> looking </em> at him, as if he weren’t broken but <em> strong -- </em> not to be pitied, but to be <em> revered… </em> Tharkay basked in it like sunlight, like rain, like <em> power… </em> oh, it felt good to feel clean, it felt good to feel strong, it felt good to feel <em> good…  </em></p><p>“Will you remind me tomorrow to ask John to have the boys’ hair seen to, when they arrive?” Tharkay yawned. “He should be able to find someone who knows how, in Gibraltar. I’m just going to rest my eyes a moment.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: Did Tharkay ever get his weed?<br/>A: And how! </p><p>Bonus:<br/>Q: What was Tharkay and Pemberton’s cover story?<br/>A: A brilliant idea.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Amendment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one's editing song was NOT George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, it was George Gershwin's Whip-Poor-Will, my bad. </p><p>(also, lol)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <strong>Amendment ; </strong>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Tharkay addresses a letter </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*** </strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are they </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> like this?” Laurence was aghast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay shrugged. “Probably. I’m hard on my clothes.” He had torn one of the seams in his shirt earlier that day -- a great rip right down from the armpit clear almost to the hem, a hazard of scampering about the rigging above the dragon deck with Sipho while Laurence and Temeraire clucked below them like anxious hens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence had by this point moved most of his things into Tharkay’s cabin simply by forgetting to take them with him when he left, so when he had arrived that evening with an unfamiliar leather case, Tharkay had been intrigued. It turned out to be a sewing-kit, of all things, for Laurence had apparently been deeply offended by Tharkay’s lackadaisical attitude toward the state of his clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Laurence held up the the shirt in question, not only torn at the one seam but also starting to come apart at the shoulders and sleeves. “This cannot fit you properly, even were it in good repair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does ‘fit properly’ mean, exactly?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it possible,” said Laurence, his face white, “that you have the ability to drain me entirely of all four essential humours with only a single question?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re covered up by my coat whenever I’m anywhere it will matter,” Tharkay pointed out reasonably. “And I save my nice one for special occasions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span> is weeping,” said Laurence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead of playing cards that night, Tharkay stood in the middle of the cabin while Laurence acted the tailor, straightening and pinning and tucking and muttering to himself, pressing Tharkay into trying on every piece of clothing he had brought so that Laurence might tut and sigh and begin marking places with chalk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know how to do this?” Tharkay was tired by this point of standing still, but it was worth it: Laurence was more content than he had seen him in months, fluttering around fussing over him like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, sew?” At Tharkay’s nod, Laurence made a noncommittal gesture. “Every sailor can mend a sail, and I like my things to fit </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.” </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>remarkably</span>
  </em>
  <span> self-sufficient, for a gentleman.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence removed a pin from his mouth. “I believe that is the highest compliment I have ever received.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they were done, Laurence sat by the lamp with his mending, happy as a clam, while Tharkay tried to find something to wear that was not covered in a dozen pins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will I be decent, tomorrow?” asked Tharkay, plopping bare-chested into the other chair to pour them each a drink. “Or will I be forced to hide in here while you finish tearing apart my entire wardrobe?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>than decent, Tenzing.” Laurence did not look up. “You do not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how much more than decent you will be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was perhaps this which tipped it -- Laurence, having not only offered but </span>
  <em>
    <span>insisted</span>
  </em>
  <span> upon doing this for him; Laurence, finding a measure of peace and contentment in tending to him this way; Laurence, mending his clothes in that swaying puddle of lamplight with his </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Before you went across the Channel,” said Tharkay abruptly, “you submitted testimony to the courts on my behalf. Entirely unsolicited, might I add, and without any knowledge of the nature or details of my case.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence dropped his sewing. “I -- yes, I -- did -- I, I hope -- though -- but if you --” He had bypassed pink and gone straight to flushing bright scarlet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay put him out of his misery. “Laurence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fell silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay looked at him, at his earnest eyes and blotchy face, and did not say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you have caused me a lifetime of headaches, Englishman. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>how is it you still do not understand that nothing you do is private anymore? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>in fifteen years, yours is the first and only testimony submitted on my behalf. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He said, “I thank you for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a beat, then two, and then -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh thank God.” Laurence dropped his head between his knees. “I thought I might have bungled that up, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay raised an eyebrow. “Not as badly as you did </span>
  <em>
    <span>hers.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard?” His voice was muffled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Laurence.” Poor, poor man. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Everybody</span>
  </em>
  <span> heard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haaaaaaaaaaauuuuunnnnnnggggghhhhhhhhhh,” said Laurence, and raised his head to look at Tharkay once more. “I -- I know it was -- but I -- and I still don’t quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand --</span>
  </em>
  <span> but of course I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and -- and I do not know if she will ever forgive -- and yet -- what else am I supposed to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>done </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- ? and how am I to fix it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay did not hide his sigh. “Sometimes,” he began slowly, thinking of how he might phrase this, “the effects of our actions on others, and the consequences thereof, are wholly divergent from the effects or consequences we ourselves might experience, were we in their place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a lesson we would all do well to remember, and you more than most, Laurence; for you have been extremely fortunate in many ways: you are perhaps the only man in Britain who could have survived </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> of your choices, let alone </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them. Your heart is in the right place, but…” He shrugged. “You do not always consider the entire context, particularly when it comes to matters involving women.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clearly she still holds you in high esteem, else she would not have trusted you with her daughter; but your letter harmed her in no small way, Will, and she is right to be angry with you for it. You cannot expect to be forgiven until you have shown in some concrete way that you have learned from your grievous misjudgment.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not grovel, Laurence; demonstrate growth.” He drank from his glass. “Though I would wager against her ever giving you another opportunity to sully her reputation in the eyes of her peers, even so.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The needle glinted silver, the lamp was throwing gold, and Laurence’s eyes glimmered blue as the waves in a puddle of swaying light. “You are a good friend, Tenzing, and a better man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Friend. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Birds of a feather, tailor mine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tharkay: you know you fucked up right </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>Q: Did Tharkay and Laurence ever openly acknowledge Laurence’s last-minute pre-treason homework submission?<br/>A: Yup</p><p> </p><p>This is one of those times where (per the Channel author's note in Gravity of Empire) I truly cannot tell whether I accidentally cribbed pieces of this from somewhere or it's been bouncing around my head for so long it just FEELS like I've read it before?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Ascertainment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Still getting these internal questions out of my head y'all they're taking up SO MUCH SPACE</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Ascertainment ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Gong Su neither confirms nor denies</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun was close to setting; the air was growing cool; and Temeraire, his captain, and his officers were off flying in squares, or polishing each other’s buttons -- or whatever it was they did to occupy themselves while the ground crew did the actual work of setting up camp. These were the times Tharkay liked best, for he was out from under Captain Laurence’s ever-suspicious eye and did not have to be on his guard, acting the dutiful guide; and today he was taking the opportunity to investigate a theory of his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the cooks who had been sent with them -- ostensibly at Temeraire’s request -- had already been dispatched in an accident which seemed rather… accidental. The setup had been a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> perfect -- pair that with the other cook’s elevated Mandarin, which surely the aviators had not noticed; his </span>
  <em>
    <span>precise</span>
  </em>
  <span> knowledge of Imperial custom and dress; and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>particular </span>
  </em>
  <span>way he had of concentrating </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> hard on his cooking -- the kind of concentration one displayed when doing one’s best to </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> as though one was engrossed in the task at hand while actually observing, or listening, or eavesdropping… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, Gong Su was </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> more than he seemed; the only question was to whom he was reporting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay wandered over to the cookfire, taking a seat at one of the long benches; Gong Su acknowledged him with a brief nod before turning back to his pots. After returning the nod Tharkay pulled out his logs and settled into an easy silence, allowing them both a little time to become used to one another’s presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he judged enough time had passed, he went back to the pack at his side and produced a silver pipe -- they had recently left Xinjiang, and having taken the opportunity to replenish his store of cannabis; he now had an excellent pretext to initiate a conversation with the cook. “Might I trouble you for a light, sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gong Su smiled. “But of course.” He brought a brand from his cookfire over to where Tharkay sat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are most kind,” said Tharkay, accepting it. After lighting his pipe, he held it out to him. “May I offer you some?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None for me, thank you, not while I am on duty.” Oh, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a courtier’s smile, a spy’s polished manners…   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay made a great show of checking over both their shoulders. “Is your master here?” To any other listening ear he was speaking of Temeraire, or Captain Laurence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gong Su’s smile spread wider. “I prefer to keep my eyes and ears sharp, even in their absence; for I must be ready to be at their disposal should they call upon me without warning.” Ah, so it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> and not </span>
  <em>
    <span>he: </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gong Su was not reporting to the crown prince alone but to the emperor himself, and all his ministers… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are most devoted to them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gong Su inclined his head. “As you are to yours, I’m sure.” His inflection lilted up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> the slightest bit -- a polite inquiry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay shrugged. “I serve no man but myself.” He took a long drag on the pipe then, allowing the smoke to drift lazily around his face as he tilted his head back, eyes half-closed. “And His Majesty, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Of course.”  Oh yes, they understood one another -- and having reached that understanding, Gong Su’s eyes were now back on the silver bowl. Tharkay wordlessly held it out to him again, raising an eyebrow -- and got a real smile in return, this time.  “Ah, well, if you insist.” Gong Su accepted the offered pipe, and held it up as if toasting. “To our masters.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long may they reign,” said Tharkay evenly, and leaned over to light it for him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: How did Gong Su and Tharkay spot each other? <br/>A: #gamerecognizegame </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>I love writing snarky Tharkay and his utter disdain for Laurence the Total Prig lololololol</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Assurance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote and edited this to Weary by Solange Knowles, which was also recently featured to great effect in HBO's Lovecraft Country!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Assurance ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tharkay warns of consequences </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been a bad day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, nothing to be remarked upon or mentioned in particular; and that was what had made it so unbearable. The grinding monotony of war: death and smoke and blood and screams and shit and pain and </span>
  <em>
    <span>death, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so much death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And to what end? He did not even know anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay was sitting in the camp-bed, having pulled out his logs to note down the day’s occurrences, but -- what did it matter, really? Nothing had changed. So much force, so much effort -- so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>blood</span>
  </em>
  <span> spilled</span>
  <em>
    <span> -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and for naught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead he found himself flipping to the back -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, the other back -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>to remind himself of that night of respite, of curling up in Laurence’s lap and </span>
  <em>
    <span>resting… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He had fallen asleep before Laurence finished the last drawing, had not dared look at it until days later -- for the way Laurence had chosen to depict him, it was -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>stars and fire -- his </span>
  <em>
    <span>back,</span>
  </em>
  <span> extending across the pillows, muscle and bone forming shadowed valleys, the long ridge of his spine stretching taut, strong as mountains; his wounds almost an afterthought -- hair tumbling in bubbling waves like water over boulders, down his shoulders, over his face -- the lines of his body drawn like the petals of a lily, like the curve of a bow, like a willow-leaf blade: slender rather than emaciated, all desperate grace and adamant strength -- bent rather than broken. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Healing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>rather than ruined. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence saw things clearly, and Laurence had seen him like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so it had to be true, even when it did not </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did not feel true tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whoosh -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold air blew in through the curtains, raising goosebumps on Tharkay’s arms. Laurence, drooping with fatigue, did not stop moving forward when his knees hit the edge of the camp-bed but instead toppled over to fall face-down across Tharkay’s legs. “Today was awful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay pushed his fingers into Laurence’s hair. “Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I never see another man trying to stuff his bowels back in, it will be too soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The smell is so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse,</span>
  </em>
  <span> somehow, than either blood or shit on their own.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the cold doesn’t mask it </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough to offset how fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>freezing</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This morning I watched one of the ferals take a man who was not yet dead,” Tharkay murmured. “God, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fear</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his eyes… but the Russians called it a success, because we gained the western ridge.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And gave it back this afternoon.” Laurence sighed. “Today was </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fucking worst.” Tharkay passed him the logbook. “Remember when?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems a lifetime ago.” Laurence pored over the page. “Would that I might worry about being a novice at drawing now, rather than whether enough have died for us to stretch rations a few more days.” The bitter calculus of war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are here together.” It was the only thing to say, these days; the only thing which helped anymore. “Will you put that away for me, and get changed? Only I find it much easier to offer you relief when you’re wearing a nightshirt, rather than your flying gear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence turned away quickly, but Tharkay heard his breath catch all the same as he stood to valet himself. “What have I ever done to deserve you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I often ask myself that very same question,” said Tharkay dryly. Laurence gave a half-glance of rueful acknowledgement over his shoulder, smiling faintly before turning back to finish undressing. The second meaning would land soon: three… two… one… Tharkay made sure he was looking away for the double-take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes later Laurence was striding back to where he lay, reaching for him with unchecked force. Tharkay rose to his knees to meet it, catching Laurence’s hand, gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise; and used Laurence’s own momentum to throw him to the camp-bed. There was no room for gentleness here -- only the brutal tenderness of matched intensity, of straining muscles and teeth on skin. They grappled for dominance with real anger, with aggression, for that was all they </span>
  <em>
    <span>had, </span>
  </em>
  <span>anymore; it was what the world and the war and indeed their own survival demanded of them, </span>
  <em>
    <span>required</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them, day after day after day after killing day; so that even when they </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be soft, to give one another pleasure, it came out as -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence’s teeth were on his collarbone; they were pushing against one another, or else pulling each other in closer -- Tharkay managed to get a hand up between them, to Laurence’s neck, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>ohhhhhhhh -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laurence shuddered all over -- and Tharkay seized the advantage, undertaking to pin Laurence to the sheets face down with a knee between his shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smack of his hand on the flesh of Laurence’s backside was -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>familiar, </span>
  </em>
  <span>this sound of violence, of pain -- and -- and -- “Aaaaagh, fuck, hnnnnnnnggghhhh</span>
  <em>
    <span>aaaaaahhhhhhh…” </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- and Laurence was whimpering, stretching, moaning in assent as Tharkay handled him with -- with no little force, as he went for the oil…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>inflict</span>
  </em>
  <span> this pleasure upon Laurence’s body, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> him arch into it, to drive him to feel good in spite of it all, in defiance of the blood and the pain and the shit and the death -- there was a kind of release, in exercising this power; or else there was a kind of power, in this release -- this grace they could offer one another, this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this… </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Take it,” Tharkay hissed viciously into Laurence’s ear, teeth clenched. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
  <span>Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>take</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, take this -- we are here -- this is ours, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ours,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Will, we -- we are here </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span> --” And </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>the sound Laurence made, as Tharkay bit the back of his neck, twisted a hand into his hair… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tenzing,” Laurence whined, gasping; his hands gripped the sheets. “Tenzing, oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tenzing.” Warm and close, and not alone -- his name, whispered like a prayer, sung like a spell, like a talisman -- together, together and </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>named. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Today had been awful, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>they had </span>
  <em>
    <span>this; </span>
  </em>
  <span>they had each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, yes, Will -- yes, this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>we deserve this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> deserve this, we -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tharkay groaned as Laurence spread his knees </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> a little wider, sank into the arch of his back and offered himself up further, opened himself up </span>
  <em>
    <span>more -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>oh holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> ohhhhhhhhhhhh -- Tharkay was not gentle as he slid his hand up the line of Laurence’s center into this new territory, allowed his fingers to explore this unmapped valley -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ohhhhhh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will.” Laurence pushed backward, pressing harder against his hand -- oh, he wanted to touch </span>
  <em>
    <span>every last one</span>
  </em>
  <span> of these places, he wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>devour</span>
  </em>
  <span> this offering -- to split Laurence open and fill him with inexorable grace from the inside out -- he yanked Laurence’s hips back, bringing them flush against his -- Laurence bucked at this, and Tharkay pushed forward harder, sliding </span>
  <em>
    <span>against,</span>
  </em>
  <span> sliding </span>
  <em>
    <span>between</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- not enough to </span>
  <em>
    <span>enter, </span>
  </em>
  <span>no, but providing Laurence something to grind onto -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that, just like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that -- </span>
  </em>
  <span> Laurence was stretching, rocking into him, guttural sounds issuing from his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Aaaaaaaaaannnnnnnngggggghhhhhhhfuuuuuuuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tenzing, Tenzing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tenzing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>ohhhhhh my c--  my -- fuuuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tenzinggggg.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tharkay’s eyes rolled, his fingers working furiously -- yes, oh</span>
  <em>
    <span> yes, take it, take it, beg me for it, let me make you take it</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- he reached around to stroke Laurence with one hand and grabbed for the handkerchief with the other, for surely -- and oh yes, yyyyyyessssssssss -- Laurence came screaming into the pillow a few moments later: spine rigid, fists clenched, splaying himself wide for Tharkay to have, to take, to give -- </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>   -- -- - </span>
</p><p>
  <span> - - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span> -- -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>  -- -- ---- - - - - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>   - - - - - - - - - - - - - ---  - - - - -   -- - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>     --- - - - - - -    -   -  -  - -- - - - - - - - - -  - -- ---- - -  -- - - - - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>     - - - - - -  - - -    - - - -- -  - - - -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>   - - -- - - - -- - - -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span> - - - - - - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- - - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>… oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span> yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and now -- oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ohhhhhhhh --</span>
  </em>
  <span> this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This, </span>
  </em>
  <span>yes, this -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>this -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laurence’s expression clearing, his brow smoothing as he exhaled all that </span>
  <em>
    <span>tension, </span>
  </em>
  <span>all that </span>
  <em>
    <span>strain </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a sigh that went on and on and </span>
  <em>
    <span>on… </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay eased up on his shoulders, sliding to lie down against his back; and nudged a knee between his thighs. Oh yes, this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>this was even </span>
  <em>
    <span>better, </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a way, than giving Laurence the crisis of pleasure itself -- these twilight after-times, when the violence in the air had dissipated and their heartbeats had begun to slow -- when for a few brief moments their minds were calm enough to allow </span>
  <em>
    <span>softness</span>
  </em>
  <span> between them rather than screaming death; were quiet enough that they might exchange a caress or two… “Are you well?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I approach it, thanks to you.” Laurence rolled sideways, closer into him. “Did you…?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh.” He kissed the back of Laurence’s neck, and wound his arms around that heaving chest. “No -- no, and I do very well, thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence’s back stiffened. “In that case, I must beg your --” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dear sailor, the next time you apologize for feeling good I swear I shall find the nearest ship, drag you onto it, and throw you overboard.” Tharkay tightened his embrace: warm and close, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>named.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “One's own crisis need not always be the primary objective, and even if it were I am much too comfortable to do anything about it now -- I dare say I have the plushest cushion east of Khartoum.” He patted Laurence’s behind, and nuzzled closer into his hair. “This, just this, feels so nice </span>
  <em>
    <span>aaaa’AAArrrrrRrrcq.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Laurence’s breath was shaky and his voice rough, but his lips were soft on Tharkay’s fingertips. “You keep using that word.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does not mean what you think it means.” Tharkay kissed the back of Laurence’s neck once more, eyes already sliding closed. “Durzagh is a tricky language.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>me again, still singing, with jazz hands: well anyWAYYYYYYY let me SAYYYYYY you’re WEEEELLLLLCOOOOOMMMMMEEEEE </p><p>Q: What’s the deal with our men and their simultaneous orgasms, like are they sex magicians who ejaculate in perfect synchronicity every single time or?<br/>A: nahhhhh, it’s just kinda a side effect sometimes when your ~*~*kink*~*~ is “my partner is enjoying themselves” </p><p>*** </p><p>PS my original notes to self for this one were "chill sex vibes" 😬 buuuuut a) i'm apparently incapable of writing sex that isn't fraught with emotion and b) turns out war is hell, so</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Candor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I mean if Gong Su got one… </p><p>I actually edited this tiny bubble to “US Army” by the Booze Brothers, an Irish punk band who (at a music festival back in the early aughts aka quite a formative time for baby nb***) sang a 21st century version of a very old folk song about the British Army.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Candor ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Arjun tells no lies</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kiss goodnight was long and lingering. “I will not speak openly of that which you and I both know to be true,” Arjun murmured, finally breaking it. “We are each of us smart enough to have sussed one another out by now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Preeti pulled away minutely. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dropped his hands from her face. “Of course not,” he said. “And nevertheless I make an offering to you, to do with as you please.” He withdrew a sheet of paper from his chest pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She accepted the folded note but did not open it. “What is this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arjun shrugged. “Call it a show of good faith. The three names contained therein are on the Company payroll.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what am I to do with it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything you please.” This was a calculated risk, but he had judged it time to make his move. He dropped a quick kiss to her lips. “I hope to see you again soon.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your information was good.” She sat across from him, one eyebrow quirked up at the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will continue to be.” Arjun sipped his tea: strong, fragrant, subtle. “Especially with your help.” He made it a question.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do this?” Preeti demanded. “Why risk yourself to help our cause, why work against your own employers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, there were </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>many things he might say to that -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arjun settled on, “Because </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> the British Empire.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p> </p><p>Q: What made Preeti take the chance &amp; choose to trust Arjun initially???<br/>Preeti: pretty relatable motive tbh</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Endowment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's November 7 2020 and I gotta say, I'm pretty stoked to post this chapter today. </p><p>Editing song was On The Run, from the Steven Universe soundtrack.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <strong>Endowment ; </strong>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Roland entreats </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*** </strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The river was singing, the pencil was skritching, and the yabby was making a break for it. She kept trying to shoot backward with her tail, a strategy much less effective on land than underwater; it sent her flopping backward by only a few inches rather than propelling her away in a cloud of silt.  </p><p>She was ungainly as she crawled, claws waving, each of her six spindly legs lifting in turn to drag her across the rock’s uneven surface. Those legs ended in delicate forks, tiny vestigial structures which would grow into claws in time but which surely did not help her now; they were never meant to carry so much armored weight. She was adapted for an entirely different environment, one where she might float with shifting currents and hide in burrows in the warm shallows -- an environment to which Tharkay would be only to happy to return her, if she would just <em> hold still </em>a moment. Trying to keep the crayfish in place with one hand and draw with the other was a losing battle, but  -- well, he’d grown rather more partial to lost causes of late, hadn’t he. </p><p>Roland had never been one for stealth; he heard her boots crunching on gravel of the riverbank long before she came into view.  “You were right, sir.” Her shadow loomed over him. </p><p>“Yes.” Tharkay looked up, shading his eyes. “What about?” </p><p>“It’s better in a fight to know a few things well than a lot of shoddy tricks.” </p><p>“Ah.” Well, then. “I am glad to have equipped you in some way, though its necessity be abhorrent indeed.” </p><p>“At least what <em> you </em> did actually helped.” She huffed, and folded her legs to sit. “He wants to get me a <em> chaperone.”  </em></p><p>“He’s had worse ideas.” Laurence could not be everywhere at all times; if he wanted to make the aviators’ environment safer for <em> all </em> his people, he could do no better than to introduce a strong matronly presence: men tended to behave better around someone who reminded them of their own mothers.</p><p>Roland had picked up the yabby and was now cradling it between her hands. “I’ve never seen a blue one before.” </p><p>“According to the Wiradjuri guide I spoke to before we left Sydney, they are found in a range of similar hues along all the tributaries of the Murrumbidgee.” The claws and hard shell were a -- a <em> midnight </em> blue, perhaps, though there was just a <em> touch </em> more grey in it, and no little amount of tawny brown along the edges, shading to a lighter blue-grey at the underside…  </p><p>“Moo-roo -- what?” </p><p>“The large river we crossed some days ago; all of the streams we have encountered since number among its tributaries.” Along the edges of her tail there was no little amount of green in the yabby’s coloration, or perhaps a hazel-brown, or even a deep bistre -- and still that strong undertone of <em> blue, </em> making for a sort of rich teal which nonetheless managed to retain translucence -- <em> oh, </em>his fingers itched for his paints. </p><p>“I didn’t realize it had a name,” said Roland. “But of course it does, doesn’t it?” </p><p>“Indeed.” Tharkay repositioned his notebook. “Will you hold her up for me? With your assistance we may return her to the water that much sooner.” </p><p>Roland pinched the yabby gently between her thumb and forefinger, positioning her fingers just at the base of the arms so that the claws spread wide, immobile. For a while, the only sounds were the river and the pencil --and Tharkay remained silent, for Roland’s brows were wriggling in consternation, and her mouth was pinching tighter and tighter as the picture began to form beneath his hand -- no color, just lines and shades, just values. </p><p>“It’s not that it <em> happened,” </em> she finally burst out. Tharkay did not look up. “I mean, it <em> is, </em> but it <em> isn’t </em> -- it’s how they all <em> reacted --”  </em></p><p>“Careful,” he cautioned; she was squeezing the crayfish with undue force. </p><p>Roland loosened her hold slightly. “I don’t know which I hate more. Rankin, who thinks it -- <em> natural, </em> or <em> expected, </em> who feels himself <em> entitled </em> to it -- or Demane and the captain, who want to boo-hoo all over me and rattle their sabers and holler about raining down hell like they’re going to save me from all the bad men who ever existed.” She rolled her eyes. “Ugh! Why can’t they just <em> listen </em> to me? Why do they always have to make it about <em> them?”   </em></p><p>Tharkay waited a few moments, just to make certain that she had finished speaking before he responded. “If you were truly asking,” he murmured, looking from the yabby to the page and back again, “I would answer that there is a certain type of man who, treasuring his pride above all else, and thinking himself solely responsible for the actions of all around him; believes it the highest degree of dishonor -- an insult offered personally to <em> him, </em>even -- should the least harm befall any being he considers under his protection. Will you turn her over for me, please?” The thorax was bigger, proportionally speaking, than those of the freshwater crayfish species he’d encountered on other continents. The armored sections of the yabby’s tail slid against one another, curling and uncurling in the air, as Roland held her underside exposed to his gaze: teal, cyan, turquoise. </p><p>“Your captain is one such man,” Tharkay continued, starting a rough outline on a new page. “Demane is another. It is an admirable quality in a commanding officer, to be sure; but for my own part I find it much less welcome in an equal or friend, especially one who will never experience those particular species of harm which induce in them so much righteous anger on behalf of another.” </p><p>“I <em> hate </em> it.” Tharkay remained silent: singing water, sketching pencil, waving claws.  Roland sighed. “What are these?” she asked, indicating the oddly-colored froth on the underside of the yabby’s tail. </p><p>“Those are eggs.” He peered closely -- there were dozens of them; hundreds, maybe: pockets of tiny glistening bubbles held in place by only the thinnest of membranes. “They are the reason I undertook this fruitless endeavor in the first place. What would you call that color, do you think?” </p><p>She shrugged. “Blue-green?” </p><p>“Your creativity and imagination are unparalleled, young Roland.” It was rather difficult to translate the opalescence onto the page, the tension of those delicate sinews: fragile, yes, and strong all the same. It was a task which could and did command all of his attention, until Roland heaved another sigh. </p><p>“I miss China more even than home, sometimes.” Tharkay glanced up. “That is -- I know that nowhere is perfect, but… at least I was something like <em> normal, </em> there. At least nobody looked twice at <em> these.” </em> She motioned to her chest. “And I’ve never been around so many -- so many <em> women, </em> before, not just girls my age or old ladies like my mother but <em> all </em> kinds, women who were still <em> fighters </em> for all that -- and there were so <em> many </em> of us that we were just… the same. But different, better, because it <em> wasn’t </em>the same.” </p><p>“It <em> is </em> rather nice sometimes, isn’t it,” Tharkay murmured, looking down once more. “Not being the only one.” </p><p><em> “Yes,” </em>said Roland with real vehemence, and sighed again. </p><p>The river sang, the trees whispered, the tail curled -- and it <em> was </em> rather nice, not being the only one. </p><p>Tharkay was almost done with his second sketch before he decided to speak again. “To be frank, I would not blame you if you told Demane exactly where to shove his saber. His feelings are his own to deal with; they are neither your responsibility nor your primary concern which, as always, should be yourself and yourself alone.” He heard her sniff, and kept his eyes on the page. “Laurence, however, is your captain, for all he no longer holds any official rank; he is responsible for your safety until you come of age: your mother trusted him with your care, and he has every right to discharge his duty as he sees fit.”  </p><p>“Not just him.” At this Tharkay could not help but look up, startled. “She wasn’t going to let me come, before. I begged and begged but -- ugh, she’s so <em> unreasonable!” </em> It took only a little effort to still his smile. “Anyway, she came and said she’d changed her mind -- and I asked her why, not that I <em> wanted </em> to second-guess her, of course, but she <em> never </em> changes her mind about <em> anything </em> -- and -- and she’d learned <em> you </em> were coming, sir, and she said -- well, she said, uhm -- she said ‘that chivalrous idiot can’t be counted on not to botch things up, left to his own devices, but Captain Tharkay is sharper than edged steel.’ So,” she shrugged -- and Tharkay’s breath halted. </p><p>He was still not quite sure how he felt about Roland the elder -- the two of them were quantities known to one another, yes; they understood and respected one another, yes, that too; and yet he had not forgotten that she would have had <em> him </em> go across the Channel rather than Laurence, would have in fact <em> ordered </em> him to do it. </p><p>This, though -- <em> this </em> was no order from a superior, no; this was the admiral giving her child the best chance at survival she possibly could. This was a mother’s desperate hope that, though her daughter had been born into a world which seemed determined to knock her down at every turn, she might at least grow up surrounded by men who would see her <em> thrive.  </em></p><p>To know that the elder Roland trusted him this way, it was -- well. And of course he would, of <em> course.  </em></p><p>“Your mother honors me.” He would never be satisfied with the picture -- there would always be things to perfect, always -- but he’d captured the essence of what had piqued his interest in the first place. “Shall we set her free?” </p><p>“But -- a chaperone, sir,” said Roland, going to kneel by the stream. When placed back in the water once more the yabby swiftly vanished -- drifting on unseen currents, blending with the blue-black stones of the streambed, perfectly suited to her environment. “A <em> chaperone. </em> Can’t you talk some sense into him, sir? The way I see it, it’s -- well, it’s a kind of <em> duty, </em>isn’t it, for you to help me.” Roland eyed him hopefully -- and it was a valiant effort on her part, to be sure, but she was a novice at this game. </p><p>“You know exactly how likely your captain is to change his mind in this regard, and he is not entirely wrong besides.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Nevertheless, I shall do what I can.” Pemberton would have aged nicely into the role by now, surely -- and if he crafted the report correctly, he might solve two problems in one fell swoop. </p><p>They were making their way back to camp; nearly there, even, when Tharkay had another -- well, if not a <em> good </em> idea, certainly a satisfying one. “Do you know,” he said thoughtfully, looking to Roland at his side, “there were a great quantity of spices available in Sydney for a surprisingly reasonable price. I know you do not tend to favor hot pepper in your food, but I should be glad to make you a gift of some nevertheless, and hope that you may find another use for it.” </p><p>She grinned. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Upon returning to Sydney, Mr. Laurence will seek a chaperone for Emily Roland, daughter of Her Grace Admiral Jane Roland.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This is a natural and convenient cover for my successor. Recommend the following characteristics:  </em>
</p>
<ul>
<li><em>experience in &amp; knowledge of the ways of Eastern women </em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>in addition to standard European tongues, has 1 or more of the following: Chinese, Turkish, Persian</em></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><em>close personal ties to 1 or more branches of His Majesty’s Service</em></li>
</ul><p> </p><p>That ought to do it -- he did not know of another operative who both fit those specifications <em> and </em> might serve as chaperone to the daughter of a duchess. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>When Rankin showed up to breakfast the next day walking as if he’d been riding a horse for weeks, Tharkay felt that familiar surge of protective anger -- expected, to be sure -- and beneath that, a distinct sense of…  vindication, or perhaps pride? </p><p>Well, then. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: How did Tharkay somehow magically arrange that whole Pemberton situation?<br/>Tharkay, as Elle Woods: What, like it’s hard? </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>Laurence = (brave + strong) dad<br/>Tharkay = (smart + scary) dad</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Recognition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey real quick does anybody remember when Laurence finds out about his father’s death? Asking for a friend. </p><p>Zanies and Fools by Chance feat. Darius Scott + Nicki Minaj, because an entire generation imprinted on Whitney Houston as the Fairy Godmother (iconic), and now we’re all old enough to be making our own stuff. Also, the verses on this song are bars like chocolate and fire like Fontainebleau. </p><p>Happy Diwali to those celebrating!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Recognition ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Demane defends</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***  </b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---- -- - - - --- --- --- --   -- - - - - ------ -- - green, red-brown, yellowing --- - - green, <em> green </em>  - - - - --- </p><p> </p><p>-----o- -- - - - - - grey-green, brown-green, yellow-green-yellow-brown  -- - - - - - - </p><p> </p><p>----- warm earth - - - - - - - -        -- </p><p> </p><p>- -- - - -+ - - - - - - - -    dust, blown in from the south - - - - - - -   -------- -      - -    -=-    --- - -     -- - - </p><p> </p><p>----      --- --  - - -   --- - - -     - -    - - - -o--   - - + - soft, soft, walk <em>softly, </em>tread lightly - - - o- ------ - --- - - - - - -o - - -  +- - - -- - - - -   -</p><p> </p><p> - - - - - - - -- + - -     --- - - - - -<em>krrrrrrrr-aa-ckaackaaack --- - - --- - - - </em>dry-smelling air <em>- - -</em> -  -   +  -- - - - -  shadows, dappled light: <em>be still </em> --- - - - - -- - -  - -  -</p><p> </p><p>-- - - - - - - -    <em>sh-kkk-kk-kkk-k-tt-t-t-t-tk--tkkt-tkt-kt--kkkt -- </em> - - - - a chitinous rattle, to the left and ahead - --  -- + - - - - - -</p><p> </p><p>- -       --- - -   green, green whisper, grey bark ---- + - - - =- - - - - - -    o -= - -- -  - -</p><p> </p><p> -- and that birdcall again: <em> krrrrrr-aaaaa-ackkaaaackaack </em> -- - - - - - - - <em> krrrrrr-aaaaa-aaackaaackaack   - - -  ---- - - - -- - -o - - = ----   -       </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p><em>- - -  - - - - -      - -  -  </em>sunlight, sunlit earth, sunlit leaves --        - - - --- -- grasses and - - - </p><p> </p><p>                                               - - - -    -- - - stones and yellow-red </p><p> </p><p>                                                                                                                                                                 sand beneath brown feet    - - - - - - -   -----   ---  - - - - +- - </p><p> </p><p>- -    --- -  - - - --a -- a <em> tap, </em> something had <em> tapped him </em> on the shoulder: he whirled -- </p><p> </p><p>-- and there was nothing there. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tharkay had once thought himself passable at wildcraft -- competent, even. He could read a river’s currents without thinking; he could smell a sandstorm from <em> leagues </em> away; he knew how to find resources no-one else had even <em> considered. </em> In the mountains he flourished -- they <em> were </em> his mothers, after all -- and he had survived more nights alone in the wilderness with no food or shelter than he could count <em> . </em> At falconry he downright excelled, having been taught the art by the Khatun of the Kush herself -- oh yes, Tharkay had thought himself quite the adept, at wildcraft --</p><p>-- until he met Demane. </p><p>It was wonderfully galling to be reminded of his own hubris this way -- he had never been so <em> delighted </em> to lose at something again and again, but every time he felt that tap on his shoulder and whirled to find nothing he laughed with surprise and joy -- and Demane’s laughter always echoed back, unseen. </p><p>… and yet, for all that Demane’s skill in the wild delighted him, it saddened him still more -- for it was the kind of skill gained only over years of dire necessity. </p><p>He had pieced together some of the boys’ story, on the ship; Laurence had supplemented that gleaning with his own meagre knowledge. The details were not known to them, but the essentials were clear: Demane and Sipho had been on their own for no little time -- most of Sipho’s life, perhaps -- and Demane had kept them alive. </p><p>The aviators tended to smirk, just a little, when speaking of how they had promised the boys a <em> cow </em> in payment for their services, as if it were <em> laughable </em> -- but Laurence didn’t laugh, no, and Tharkay didn’t either: to Demane a cow would have meant security, a steady source of food -- a single cow meant that they would not constantly be on the edge of starvation. No, there was no smirking, here; only respect, only esteem -- only awe tinged with sorrow, at how Demane had cared for himself and his brother all on his own for so long. </p><p>And now it was clear that having suddenly been relieved of the weight of that constant stress, Demane did not quite know what to do with himself. Their meals were all provided, and even the duties of a junior officer could not possibly approach the level of responsibility he’d had before; and so, finding himself at loose ends, Demane tended to escape to the wild. Tharkay knew well this itchy restlessness: the need to be <em> anywhere else, </em> the need to find somewhere with space enough to <em> breathe, </em> the need to be <em> alone </em>somewhere he could let his thoughts expand and drift away… yes, he and Demane were akin, in this. </p><p>Another tap -- he whirled the other direction, this time, and caught Demane by the wrist. “Finally!” </p><p>A grin. “I let you have that one.” </p><p>“Of <em> course </em> you did.” They fell in step, wandering nowhere in particular. “Are those from last night’s snares?” The goanna lizards were large -- the aviators would not touch them, for a certainty, but Iskierka and Temeraire would be grateful for the extra food. </p><p>“Mm-hmm. I changed some of the parts so they’d hold bigger prey.” </p><p>“May I see?” </p><p>A nod. “You can come with me to check the others.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Kulingile hatched just in time. The growing friction between the two boys had almost ignited, on the ship, but they had arrived to Sydney before the cramped quarters and monotony forced matters to a head -- and now the friction was building once more. What was happening between the brothers was a natural transition, though one which obviously put Demane on edge. Sipho was growing more and more comfortable with the aviators -- more independent by the <em> hour, </em> it seemed; but these days Demane looked -- off-kilter, perhaps; or as if he did not quite fit into his own skin. His hands and feet were much too big for his body, and his limbs were growing into the lankiness of a boy just beginning his growth -- indeed, Tharkay was sure that if he listened closely enough, he could <em> hear </em> Demane’s bones stretching. </p><p>Well, no. He could <em> never </em> hear Demane, not if Demane did not want to be heard.</p><p>Either way, Demane’s mother-hen attitude was clearly getting to be too much for Sipho, and Roland had rejected it outright -- as she should -- so when Kulingile emerged from his egg looking the way he did, it was immediately clear that <em> here </em> was a place where all of that caretaking energy would be <em> more </em> than welcome; it would be <em> necessary.  </em></p><p>Oh yes, Tharkay knew this feeling, too: the comfort of having an immediate and all-consuming task -- a task which kept all those complicated and confusing thoughts from spinning out of control -- a task which was so emergent that it took up all of the space inside, <em> all </em> of one’s energy and focus, leaving no room for <em> anything </em> else; and this particular task was one which allowed Demane to go back to that familiar place of <em> providing </em>for a creature who was entirely dependent on him.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Only one of the boys slept at a time; Sipho was the one awake when Tharkay tossed the three goannas into the dust at his feet. </p><p>Kulingile stirred. “Is that food?” The dragonet’s voice was thin, reedy. “But nobody is supposed to feed me except Demane.” </p><p>“These are not for you,” said Tharkay. He addressed Sipho: “These are for Captain Demane.” </p><p>Sipho’s eyes were wary. “Why?” </p><p>“Your brother was good enough to teach me a modification to the snares we had been using, one which allowed for the capture of much bigger prey -- and, as I’m sure you know, it is every student’s first instinct to present their teacher with the fruits of their labor.” </p><p>A slow nod. “That’s true.” </p><p>“If they’re for Demane,” said Kulingile plaintively, “does that mean I can eat them?” </p><p>“I cannot say what your captain’s preferences might be, in this regard.” Demane’s breath had changed slightly -- surely he’d been awake since the goannas had hit the ground. “I only know that, having offered them in tribute to the knowledge he gave me, they are now his to do with as he wishes.” </p><p>Kulingile looked to Sipho. “Can I eat them? Please?” </p><p>Sipho’s eyes flicked to Tharkay, then the lizards -- then to Kulingile, and back to Tharkay, who only looked at him steadily -- then to Demane, and then the lizards again, and finally back to Kulingile. “Tata Tharkay wouldn’t try to take you from us,” he said slowly. </p><p><em> Oh -- </em> a flood in his gut, tightening across his shoulders -- this was how Sipho referred to <em> Laurence, </em>but -- but -- and of course in Xhosa it wasn’t quite -- but still, it was -- it was, it was -- it made him want to hunch over and curl in on himself, or else run very, very far away, or else -- pick Sipho up and whirl him around, and hug him close. </p><p>“Does that mean I can eat them?” At Sipho’s nod, Kulingile snapped up the goannas and devoured them whole. </p><p>Tharkay sat beside Sipho. “Have <em> you </em> had your breakfast, dear one?” Well, and hadn’t <em> that </em> just slipped out. </p><p>“Not yet.” </p><p>“I should be very happy to keep watch for you, should you wish to eat.” Sipho’s smile made his shoulders tighten again, his hands flex with that urge to reach out… Tharkay clenched his fists in his lap, and watched Sipho dart away. </p><p>When Tharkay turned back Demane’s eyes were already on him, hard as flint. “It doesn’t really mean <em> father, </em>not like you think it does,” he spat. “We can take care of ourselves.” </p><p>Tharkay nodded. “We address our elders similarly, in my mother tongue. I am honored, Captain, that your brother chooses to term me so.” </p><p>Demane’s gaze -- <em> so </em> like his brother’s -- darted from Tharkay to Kulingile and back. “I haven’t eaten yet either.” </p><p>Oh, there it was again -- Tharkay looked away, and settled back on his elbows. “I will stay here until one of you returns, should you wish to join your brother at breakfast,” <em> dear one.  </em></p><p>“Was that breakfast, just now?” asked Kulingile. “Can I have some more?” </p><p>Tharkay turned back to Demane to see only an empty bedroll -- <em> how </em> did he move so quietly, and so <em> fast? </em> “I’m sure your captain will be back soon, and with more food besides.” </p><p>A tap on his shoulder -- he whirled -- and was met with only laughter, drifting on the breeze. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q: Ok so we know where Sipho and Roland stand re: Tharkay but what about Demane?<br/>Demane: YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD </p><p>*** </p><p>For Tharkay’s vibes this chapter, and the original song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dd0fuaD-OwE </p><p>The Bernadette Peters version of “Falling in Love with Love” referenced in the Alps chapter of Anchor of Stars is also from this movie, and it's here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jG9wQAWW3yA</p><p>(When I tell you this film played a key role in my early development…)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Absence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I edited this to See You Again from the Furious 7 soundtrack -- the quality of masculine pathos in this song/franchise is just. *chef’s kiss* so beautiful. </p><p>Dialogue and italicized narrative bits marked with an asterisk* are lifted directly from canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Absence ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Granby </b> <b> <em>speaks to him</em> </b></p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I am a fool; it didn’t occur to me at first any of it could really be true—still less that Hammond could really mean it to happen, and now—”* He sighed. </p><p>It would never have come to this, with Tharkay here. </p><p>Tharkay would have -- would have just -- raised an eyebrow, and -- <em>I’ll speak to him -- </em>and then taken Laurence aside, and said four words from some old book -- and then Laurence would have come back all poised and polite, exactly as before, only <em>not</em> exactly as before, and then together they would have come up with a plan to get him <em>out of this. </em>It didn’t <em>work</em> that way<em>,</em> when it was just the two of them -- Laurence was perhaps his closest comrade, certainly a dear friend, but -- but he didn’t have the trick of <em>speaking </em>to him, not like Tenzing Tharkay did. </p><p>“I scarcely know how to counsel you,”* said Laurence. No, of course he didn’t. </p><p>The worst part was that Laurence <em> didn’t </em> have the usual pretense: that assumed mantle of the nobility. No, he was just <em> like that, </em> all the way down -- he was never not perfectly correct, never not exactly just the way he <em> should </em> be, which was so fucking <em> good </em> and <em> proper </em> that he wanted to break that pretty face sometimes, just a little, just to see if there was anything <em> behind </em>it. </p><p>John Granby could stand down a heavyweight dragon, he could fight off a dozen Frenchmen -- hell, he’d even managed to halfway tame <em> Iskierka, </em>for that matter -- but put him in front of William Laurence’s perfectly enunciated crystal fucking consonants and he turned into a puddle of slop.</p><p>“It’s worse than that.” Oh, it was about to get <em> so much </em> worse. “Laurence, I can’t marry her. I know I ought to have spoken at once, and not left it so late; but there—it would scarce have made much of a difference, when Iskierka has kept the whole matter under her wing so long to begin with. Anyway, I couldn’t—cannot—tell Hammond. I won’t trust him so; but if I don’t tell him, I don’t know how to—what to—”* Shut up, shut <em> up, </em>John. </p><p>He wiped a hand down his face -- Laurence was looking at him with those big shiny full-moon cow eyes, here on this ridge in the Incan mountains, looking at him as if he had <em> no idea </em> what the problem could <em> possibly </em> be, even now… oh, please, <em> please, help me, Tenzing Tharkay, help me with this, help me with him…  </em></p><p>“Are you already married?”* <em> No, not like that.  </em></p><p>“Oh! Lord, if only I were. My sister wanted to settle one of her friends upon me; if only I had let her arrange it! Not even Hammond could ask me to become a bigamist, I suppose.” Ugh, and he <em> knew </em> what Tharkay would say, at this point -- <em> there is nothing for it, John; you must… </em>“No, Laurence—I—I am an invert.”* </p><p>“What?”*</p><p>Laurence looked <em> dumbstruck, </em> confused -- as if something was not quite adding up… <em> ugh, </em> and there it was: he'd found the <em> one </em> thing that could make Captain William Laurence say <em> what </em> instead of <em> beg pardon. </em> </p><p>Granby’d already figured him for one of <em> these, </em> even if he’d hoped otherwise -- for Tharkay’s sake if nothing else -- but it was rather worse to have it confirmed. “Well, I don’t know what the cause of it is, but it hasn’t anything to do with opportunity; for me, anyway,”* he said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. <em> You can lie to yourselves all you want, you Navy lads, but we don’t.  </em></p><p>“I am very sorry—very sorry, indeed,”* said Laurence, without a trace of irony in those pretty blue eyes, shining like pearls in the moonlight. </p><p>“Oh—” <em>fuck your apology, Laurence, fuck how you speak as if this has nothing to do with you, fuck how you refuse to acknowledge it. </em>“In the ordinary course of things, you know, it scarcely makes a difference.” What would make him make the connection? “I have never seen the use for an aviator of battening on some girl who like as not cannot say boo to a dragon, and leaving her to sit in an empty house eleven months in twelve for the rest of her life, while you live in a covert with your beast.” Was there <em>anything </em>beneath that mantle? “And for that matter, I had as soon have a little quiet discretion with another officer, as make my way in the ha’penny whorehouses outside the coverts like other fellows do.” -- and not even a <em>blink</em> -- oh, <em>fuck </em>you, Your Imperial Highness -- oh, <em>where</em> was Tenzing Tharkay? “But now—this lunacy—”* Shut <em>up,</em> John. </p><p>“Ah,” Laurence said, and -- clearly steeling himself against the <em> indelicacy </em> of it all, asked, <em> “Can </em> you not?”* </p><p>“I can manage <em> that </em> if I must, I expect.” <em> Fuck you, William Laurence: fuck your self-righteous gentility, fuck how you still seem to believe that we all think the same way. </em>“I would have to try and put myself out to stud to provide for Iskierka soon enough anyway -- but once or twice is not the same thing as marriage. She must resent it; the Inca, I mean, and why shan’t she say ‘off with his head’ if she don’t like it?”* </p><p>“If she should not learn—?” <em> FUCK your Queen’s English, Laurence. </em>“Not that I would counsel you to dishonesty, but if it is no barrier to your duty to her—”* </p><p>Granby might have gagged; not even the Golden Captain’s rosy-posy lips and cabled-rope forearms were enough to make him want to overcome his deep disgust for selkie men -- the depth of their self-deception alone… </p><p>“It won’t do.” <em> Fuck your insinuations, fuck your idea of duty -- </em> he was beginning to panic, now -- what to <em> say </em> to <em> make him see? </em> “Not that I would make a cake of myself, any more than I ever have, but I don’t undertake to be a monk the rest of my days, either. I would try and be discreet; but it is more than I expect that no-one should find out and blab to her: I shouldn’t be just some aviator, that no-one cares about, but the husband of their queen.”*  </p><p>Laurence <em> still </em> had that <em> same </em> expression on his face, as if he were trying to solve a very difficult math problem -- oh, he had looked <em> just </em> the same, poring over those pirate maps. “And yet—she cannot be looking for affection of the ordinary sort which one might hope to find in marriage,” he said slowly, as if <em> that </em> were the issue -- oh, <em> fuck you, William Laurence. </em>“For that matter, she must know soon enough if not already that Napoleon has divorced another woman for her, one whom he married for passion; and she herself is a recent widow. Her marriage must be an act of state, rather than a personal gesture; I cannot think she would take it as an injury in the same manner as might a woman entering into the marriage contract under the more ordinary circumstances.”*  </p><p>He wanted to tear his hair out -- <em> there is nothing for it, John -- </em> “Laurence!” oh, he was fair <em> screaming, </em> but it seemed to do the trick, for <em> finally </em> His Lordship seemed to be <em> listening </em> -- “I should not have said a word to you of any of this, if I had been set on fire and dragged by wild horses, except that I hadn’t the least notion how to get out of the thing without help; and now you are as much as telling me you think I ought to go through with it!”*  Please, <em> Will, please -- please, you have to see, you have to help me, please, please help me…  </em></p><p>“I would say, rather, that I do not know how to advise you.” Ohhh, of <em>course</em> <em>-- damn you, William Laurence, damn you straight to hell.</em> “This alone does not seem to me a greater bar to your marriage than must be all the other obstacles: the difference in your station, and the uncertainty of the local politics; the ruin which it must make of your career—”*  </p><p>
  <em> Here Laurence trailed off: for he himself had ruined his career, to carry out what he felt his duty; and Granby, who had looked away, knew it: Laurence’s own actions spoke too loudly of the choice he himself would make.*   </em>
</p><p>Well, and that was that. If Laurence would not help him… fuck. <em> Fuck. </em> He put a fist to his mouth, his view of the terraced gardens beginning to blur. <em> Augustine, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…  </em></p><p>-- but then that perfectly polished voice was speaking again, and -- “It is not, of course, your duty,”* said Laurence quietly.  </p><p><em> Ohhhhhhhhhh -- </em> a cascade of shivers flooded over John Granby’s entire body -- <em> fucking hell, fucking Christ Almighty… </em> a waterfall of relief, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. <em> Thank you, Tenzing Tharkay, wherever you are. </em> “Too fucking right, it isn’t.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Granby: *comes out*<br/>Laurence: *confused trig lady* </p><p>*** </p><p>Q: Was it as horrific as Jane imagined?<br/>Granby: IT WAS WORSE</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Discipline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright by Kendrick Lamar -- heads up that the explicit version is quite explicit indeed compared to the rest of the stuff on this playlist</p><p>**February 2021 edit: wasn't quite satisfied with the previous draft/version, added a couple sentences that needed to be there in order to make the words match my thoughts/emotions**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <strong>Discipline ; </strong>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Tharkay accepts a compliment</strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <strong>*** </strong>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Demane was pouting. “I won’t go.”</p><p>Tharkay collapsed into the chair opposite him at the table. “It is unlikely that she will forget about you.” </p><p>Ah, excellent -- he had made it just in time for Demane to spring up and begin pacing. “We won’t go. I won’t leave her!” </p><p>Tharkay’s vision swam; he was still a little dizzy from the trip across the room, and trying to keep track of Demane wasn’t helping. “That is, of course, your prerogative, Captain; but I beg you to consider whether that is what <em> she </em> desires.” </p><p>“They can’t <em> do </em> this!” </p><p>Tharkay rolled his eyes. “I think you’ll find, Captain, that they very much can.”</p><p>And then -- how, <em>how</em> did he move so <em>fast, </em>and so <em>fucking</em> <em>quietly?</em> -- Demane was standing directly before him, and he had drawn his knife -- </p><p>“They <em> can’t!”  </em></p><p>-- and driven it into the table’s surface, a good three inches deep into fire-hardened teak. </p><p><em> “Demane.” </em> Tharkay had heard this tone only once in recent memory -- from Sara, when Ruth had been about to step into the street in front of an oncoming carriage. It was shocking to hear it from himself now; he had not known it was there, but -- some primordial terror had grabbed his guts and yanked them sideways, wringing it out of him like an ancient beast’s dying cry. “You <em> cannot </em> express your anger thus.” </p><p>The rest of the world would not look upon Demane’s predatory grace and see only the years of near-starvation behind it. They would not see his massive hands, his imposing stature -- all his power and strength -- and marvel at how much he’d <em> grown, </em> at how <em> underfed </em> he must have been, before.  </p><p>“A little temporary viciousness may be pardonable in a gentleman, even admirable; but it will brand <em> us </em> forever savages.” <em> Laurence, what are you doing --  </em></p><p>The urge welled up in Tharkay to <em> shake </em> Demane, then, or to take him by the scruff of the neck and -- and <em> rub his nose in it, </em> like a puppy -- to <em> make him understand somehow, </em> for his terror was tinged with the awareness that he was utterly powerless, here. There was -- no way to <em> save </em> him from it, no way to stop the world from hurting him; the only thing he could do was <em> shake him until he understood </em> -- </p><p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !</p><p>-- no, no, <em> never. </em>Tharkay would never do any of that, even had he been well. </p><p>सीम्ह मचा उयमदु मचा गाले थुनेमदु, परजाया गथिन हवाल<sup>16</sup> -- </p><p>Pain inflicted by a loved one was never a lesson. It was just pain. </p><p>But how to make him <em> understand…? </em> Tharkay pinned Demane with his gaze.  “Do not pretend you are not sensible to your position. If you would be seen as a man among them -- if you would be regarded as a captain in your own right -- you must be twice as composed, thrice as skilled, and four times the gentleman they are; and then perhaps they'll consider you <em>almost</em> their equal, do you understand?" He searched those dark eyes, hoping, hoping -- "You <em> must </em> learn a man’s control, or else they can and <em> will </em> take Kulingile and Sipho from you, just as they did with Laurence and Temeraire.” Ah, that one landed. “They will lock you away somewhere to rot and there will be nothing you or I or anyone can do about it, not if you do not start acting as if you have some <em> sense.”  </em></p><p>Demane’s jaw worked, but he sat down all the same. “When…” His voice was very small. “When does it stop?”</p><p>“It doesn’t. This is our lot.” Tharkay held him in it: <em> I am here with you. </em> “You are not alone in this: you are fortunate enough to have people around whom you may relax your hold on yourself. You have Laurence and me, of course; we will always --” <em> we? </em>“-- be your fiercest advocates, and you will have Granby, in Gibraltar.</p><p>“I want for you to <em> thrive, </em> Demane, and to do so you <em> must </em> learn how to move through your environment with awareness and intent. And Sipho will need your guidance -- he is old enough to understand, a little, and he will need you to be honest with him.” It was perhaps a bit underhanded, to resort to this tactic, but it was true all the same.  </p><p>Demane looked up, and <em> oh -- </em> his eyes, his <em> eyes -- </em> “It’s <em>hard.”</em> </p><p>“Yes.” <em> I am here with you. </em> “It’s very, very hard. But you know how to do this -- you bested me in the wilds of Terra Australis more times than I can count. This is no different.” </p><p>A ghost of a smile flickered across Demane’s face, and he began to work the knife free. But the smile was quickly gone, to be replaced by something deeper -- something that kept his face contorted into a scowl, his mouth set in that stubborn refusal to show weakness. </p><p>Tharkay waited: it wouldn’t be long. </p><p>“She wants to…”  </p><p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !</p><p>“Ah.” <em> Breathe.  </em></p><p>“I -- I <em> want </em> to…” Demane’s eyes darted up to meet Tharkay’s, then right back down to the table. </p><p>Was this panic? If <em> that </em> had been terror, this -- <em> breathe, breathe </em> -- this was surely panic. “It’s all right, you know -- to be uncertain, or apprehensive.” <em> Oh please, please --  </em></p><p>Eyes up, eyes down -- “I never have, before.” Ohhhhh, oh, <em> oh, </em> thank the stars above: Demane had been looking for<em> permission</em> to decline -- and something inside Tharkay was breaking, splintering -- oh, his <em>ribs: </em>it hurt, it <em>hurt --</em> for he had been this, too: a not-quite-boy not-quite-man who had needed someone, anyone, to provide him this space: to tell him it was all right to say <em>no. </em></p><p>“I have found,” he said quietly, “that when it comes to matters of carnal pleasure, it is best to be entirely certain of one’s wholehearted enthusiasm and commitment before proceeding.” Eyes up: <em> yes, dear one, I am still here, I am here with you. </em> Eyes down. “And…” Oh, <em> oh -- </em>had he thought the previous lesson difficult, or important, or serious? सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! “Your instincts point you toward caution for good reason.</p><p>“Nothing arouses an otherwise congenial man to violent hatred more quickly and entirely than the thought of the likes of us sullying the chastity of one of ‘their’ women.” <em> Thank you for the exemplar, Avram. </em>   “She is likely insensible to the danger -- not to her; Roland herself has little to fear -- but to <em> you.” </em> </p><p>Eyes up.  </p><p>“Demane, should you be discovered with Roland by any but the choicest few, <em> you </em> would not survive it; I would not count past Granby, Laurence, and me.” </p><p>Ohhh, that miserable comprehension, that sullen recognition of circumstance -- that familiar sense of resignation and rage, of <em> powerlessness -- I am here, dear one. I am here with you.  </em></p><p>“It’s -- I understand, a little.” Demane’s gaze dropped back to the blade as he wiggled it loose, bit by bit. “The crew, they -- they look at me different, now. And when they see us together, they -- it’s…” he sighed. </p><p>“Yes.” Oh, Demane, <em> Demane, my child </em> -- <em> you deserve so much better than this, you deserve to live freely and fully, you deserve -- </em> “That has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with them -- their own -- their own <em> fucking </em> --” स्वामि जुजुया धर्म मदया कचिमचा वाके छोत, वनेमाल तामाखुसि पारि <sup>18</sup> -- <em> oh, </em> he could not catch his <em> breath --  </em></p><p>Well, and the end of that sentence was unnecessary, anyway. “It’s not <em> fair.” </em></p><p>“No,” Tharkay managed, as Demane finally pulled the knife free. “No, it’s not.” </p><p>थ्व हे मचा बचे जुसा जोलिंजोल बखुन बोयके, लुंयागु ओयागु द्वाफो स्वान छाय.<sup>14</sup> </p><p>“I’m sorry about what I said before, tata.” Eyes up, and a dimpled smile. “Your hair does look pretty.” </p><p>Tharkay batted his lashes. “Why, thank you, Captain.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tharkay: wait, is this my thing? do i have a *thing* now??<br/>Everyone: lol bruhhhhhh </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>Q) we know Roland wishes she’d “had” Demane before they left, but how’d Demane feel about that? </p><p>Demane: hey not-my-real-dad what should i do re: Roland?<br/>Tharkay: shit, how do i put this<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay: fucking white women will get you killed</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Denial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Escape by Sudan Archives</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Denial ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Laurence unearths a truth </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Fuck!” Tharkay had the trick of whisper-shouting -- they both did, by now. “Mind your head --” A hand, flung out in front of him; Laurence ducked under the lantern just in time. “How can we call these worms our <em> allies?”  </em></p><p>There was no point to the question, no point to answering. Laurence followed Tharkay to the bed, whereupon he sat, and just -- just stared, at his boots: taking them off seemed an insurmountable task, just now.  </p><p>“Hundreds dead -- <em> hundreds! -- </em> and nothing to show for it, all because yet another <em> fucking </em> Romanov cousin decided he cared more about getting one up on his rivals than about men’s <em> lives.”  </em></p><p>Oh, if only he would be <em> quiet… </em>Laurence dropped a hand onto Tharkay’s shoulder. “Will you take comfort?” </p><p>Tharkay shrugged it away. “I don’t want to be <em> comforted.” </em> He stood up to pace once more. “It’s these petty <em> fucking </em> tyrants --”</p><p>Laurence let himself fall backward -- the light was so <em> bright, </em> and he was <em> so </em> very tired… and fuck, Tenzing was <em> still ranting </em>as he -- oh, he was not pacing after all, no -- </p><p> “-- can we fly into battle with men upon whom we <em> cannot depend, </em> I ask you --”  </p><p>Tharkay had dragged a chair to the middle of the sleeping-area and was now standing upon it to fiddle with the lantern-chain, and -- <em> ohhhhhh --  </em></p><p>“ -- to have put us in that position to begin with was bad enough, but to then <em> fail to cover the retreat </em> --”</p><p>Laurence pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes; his ears were ringing, and Tenzing’s voice was becoming distorted, as if he were underwater -- <em> please, be quiet --  </em></p><p>“-- it’s <em> unconscionable, </em>I tell you, absolutely and utterly --” </p><p>There was a tug at one of his feet. When Laurence opened his eyes again the lantern had been raised and the light dimmed; and Tharkay had knelt by the bed and was easing Laurence’s boots off one by one, his voice having settled into a low muttering stream. </p><p>“-- not even sound strategy in the <em> first place --” </em> Tharkay’s tone was furious, but his brisk hands were gentle as he undertook to valet Laurence piece by piece -- guiding him to sit up, peeling away each layer and placing it aside. “-- cannot imagine <em> any </em> of them had even <em> glanced </em> at the maps we’d drawn up --” </p><p>-- and then he was -- <em> gone.  </em></p><p>Shivers wracked Laurence’s body -- <em> oh, please, please -- </em> his skin felt raw, hypersensitive, exposed to the scouring cold -- it was -- he hunched over, clutching at his elbows, eyes squeezed shut -- he was alone, <em> alone: </em> where was <em> Tenzing? </em> </p><p>“-- and I should be drawn and quartered before I showed my face to General Chu, were I in that position; but <em> oh no, </em> not the <em> Romanov: </em>he struts into our camp with --” </p><p>Laurence turned toward that voice, blindly reached out and up with both arms -- <em> please, Tenzing, please -- </em> and then <em> silk </em> was falling all around him, heavy and soft and warmer than it had any right to be, was enfolding him with <em> heat </em> -- ohhhhh, and there were Tenzing’s <em> hands, </em>guiding his arms through the sleeves. </p><p>That beloved smirk was waiting when Laurence opened his eyes. “I moved the brazier.”</p><p>Was he starting to weep? Or had he already <em> been </em> weeping, before?</p><p>“Get under the covers quick, before it cools. And here,” Tharkay tugged a wool cap -- which he <em> insisted </em> upon Laurence wearing -- down over his forehead. “I did our nightcaps, too.” </p><p>Oh, he had not realized his ears had been so very <em> cold… </em> “You --” <em> you are a wonder.  </em></p><p>Tharkay sighed, his smirk fading. “How can you be so damned <em> calm </em> about it?” </p><p>Laurence’s eyes were already sliding shut. “You know how.” Numbness was not peace. “Tenzing -- please, I need…” </p><p>Soft, soft, <em> soft: </em>soft pillows, soft silk, soft lips at his temple. “Rest, Odysseus. I shall take my futile rage elsewhere.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“沒有發.” </p><p>It had been a long time since one of these. </p><p>““沒有發, 沒有發.” </p><p>“Tenzing.” Laurence did not open his eyes. </p><p>“沒有 --” Sheets rustling, a body moving beside him. “沒有什麼. 沒有, 沒有...” </p><p>“Tenzing.” He put out a hand and found Tharkay’s shoulder. “Tenzing, you are here, you are here.” </p><p>It was always easy to tell when Tharkay woke; he tensed all over, just for the <em> briefest </em> moment, and went utterly still. “Will.” A shudder. <em> “Will.”  </em></p><p>Laurence was already reaching for him. “You are here, Tenzing, you are here, you are…” He suddenly found himself with an armful of shivering Tharkay, crowding in close to his chest -- oh, it had not been this bad in a <em> long </em> time. “...Yes?” said Laurence blearily, for Tenzing had taken his hand and pressed it flat to his own belly, had begun easing it downward… </p><p>Oh, like a <em> leaf </em> in the <em>wind</em> -- “I… Yes, I -- I don’t know, keep me <em> here, </em>just…”  </p><p>Laurence slid his hand around Tharkay’s hip to stroke up and down the warm curve of his spine, firm and smooth; and wrapped his other arm around Tharkay’s shoulders to draw him still closer. “Tenzing, you are here, I am here, we are here together.” Hands, hands moving over every inch of bare skin he could reach, just to touch, just to <em> feel -- </em> the ridges on Tharkay’s back, the back of his neck, fingers rubbing into his hair, his scalp… “You are here, you made it <em> out </em>-- you walked out of the cave, Tenzing; you survived, you escaped --”  </p><p>Another wave of shudders -- Tharkay whimpered, and shook his head. “No.”</p><p>Laurence tightened his hold. “No?” </p><p>“I didn’t escape the cave.” His voice was very, very small, muffled as it was against Laurence’s chest. “You came and <em> got </em> me.” </p><p>Several things slid into place, then, somewhere in the eddies of Laurence’s mind -- about the day’s events, and Tenzing’s uncharacteristically vitriolic reaction, and the cave, and the <em> mountains </em> -- oh, <em> oh, ohhhhh </em> -- </p><p>“Never doubt it.” He had never heard his own voice like this -- had never let his voice <em> escape </em> him, like this -- harsh and deep with uncontrolled emotion, on the edge of breaking, rumbling with what must surely be the divine wind.  </p><p>Laurence rolled to cover Tharkay with his body: to shield and protect him, to touch him in <em> every possible place -- </em> “Tenzing, <em> Tenzing…” </em> He braced his elbows on either side of Tharkay’s head and kissed his brow, his temple, his ear. “Doubt anything, Tenzing, doubt <em> everything, </em> doubt all of it, <em> all </em> of it… ‘doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move’ -- doubt anything, <em> everything </em> but this: there is <em> nothing </em> that can keep me from you, Tenzing, not in this world or any other.”  </p><p>He could <em> feel </em>Tharkay’s heart crashing. “Will.”</p><p>“I swear it, Tenzing, I <em> swear it: </em> I give you my oath, my promise -- I will always come for you, Tenzing, always. Always, <em> always…” </em> Was someone weeping? “You are treasured, Tenzing -- my truth, my soul, my compass -- you are cherished, you are precious -- so very, <em> very </em> precious, Tenzing, <em> so </em> precious to me.” </p><p>Tharkay was still trembling a little, but his heartbeat had slowed at least, and his breath was coming easier. <em> “Will.” </em> </p><p>Laurence didn’t stop, not for a long while. He continued to find places to touch, places to caress, patches of skin to place his lips against and murmur words like “treasure” and “cherish” and “always” until his voice faded to a mumble, and then a whisper, and then finally nothing at all. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q) what happens when the answer isn’t a resounding and enthusiastic yes? </p><p>Tharkay: um, nothing…???<br/>Laurence: i don’t understand the question</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. rcq"ilnaa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I edited this to The Black Pearl by Klaus Badelt, because the original Pirates of the Caribbean score is truly a delight. </p><p>Everything in this chapter is true -- sources are cited in the end note. Any errors or inaccuracies are mine and mine alone.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>rcq”ilnaa ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tharkay steps into a role</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Having decided to rescue their friend, the fierce ShikaaRi and provident Host engaged the Nepa-born human Tharkay Cloudspeaky to lead them north and west, to a land where no dragon of the Karak had ever traveled before, in order to --” </p><p>Evenings aboard the <em> Allegiance </em>were rather nice, especially when the weather was calm. Tharkay and the others could stay out on the dragon deck until all hours watching the stars come out to play, and having foregone the nightly rounds of drinks and cards with Laurence for the time being Tharkay had established another ritual: for five of the last seven nights he had gathered the children and dragons -- and Granby and Laurence, when they chose to participate -- to a makeshift stage on the dragon deck, where they would play through a few rounds of the egg-game. </p><p>“-- and for days and days and <em> days </em> they chased the setting sun across mountains and oceans toward the lovely Temeraire -- who was trapped alone, surrounded by crawlers and enemies --” </p><p>The game itself was simple, and of his own devising. One or two of their number would take the floor and give a tale in a language known only to the tellers. The first of the audience to recognize or pick out some detail of the story would win the round, and then take the floor in their turn. </p><p>And it was called the egg-game because -- well, <em> that </em> much was obvious, wasn’t it? </p><p>Tharkay had never seen any sense in keeping dragon eggs locked away in some dank hold with only rum and rats for company, and he had made Arkady and Wringe a promise besides; so he and Temeraire had taken to bringing the eggs up to the dragon deck of an evening, just for the sake of company. </p><p>For this particular round Temeraire had chosen Roland as his opposite player -- for part of the purpose of the game was to <em> practice </em> other tongues. Being somewhat of a novice in Durzagh Roland was not much help as a narrator, but she understood better than she could speak, and her impersonations of Arkady were uncanny. </p><p>“In the thin forests and rounded hills of Europa they encountered fields teeming with crawlers, more than the pack had ever seen in one place, and they despaired of ever finding their friend among all the muttonheads and dullards who had allowed the crawlers to douse their <em> lሄuuxRoa. </em>But the ShikaaRi and Host had chosen well in acquiring Tharkay Cloudspeaky, for --” </p><p>It was somewhat disconcerting to hear himself spoken of in the pack’s terms: Temeraire had had this story from Arkady, not from Tharkay himself. </p><p>“-- and soon they came upon the great stone stick-pile where Temeraire was trapped, surrounded by <em> naziilim. </em>With a single great roar the pack dispatched the enemy dullards, and --” </p><p>Roland was doing an <em> excellent </em> job with the roars. </p><p>“This is from when you came to our rescue in Poland, isn’t it, back in aught-six?” Granby was looking at Tharkay, who shrugged. Granby rolled his eyes. “Roland, Temeraire, is this the story of when Tharkay and the pack came to our rescue?” </p><p>“Well done, Granby!” said Temeraire. “Of course I cannot say that I am <em> surprised, </em>really, for having started off as one of my crew you certainly developed the sharp observational skills necessary to --” </p><p>“Stop claiming Granby as <em> yours!” </em> At this Tharkay might have exchanged a look with Laurence, but… “He’s <em> my </em> captain, so it is to <em> my </em> credit that he was the one to guess the tale!” </p><p>“But you were not even <em> hatched </em> yet when we met the pack; you were still shut up all nice and snug in the palace baths without a notion or care for --” </p><p>“Alllllllllllllll right, then,” said Granby. “Is it my turn? I think it’s my turn.” Tharkay grinned. </p><p>Granby didn’t have many other languages, but Scots certainly counted; it was nearly unintelligible. Tharkay looked around: Laurence had once again retreated into himself; Demane, Sipho, and Roland were all staring blankly, as was Temeraire; whereas Iskierka had a rather self-satisfied air about her, for it was <em> her </em> captain who had managed to stump the audience. </p><p>It truly was impressive, the way Granby spun the story -- Tharkay didn’t recognize it at <em> all, </em> which was exceedingly rare. He concentrated hard: surely, <em> surely </em> he could catch <em> some </em> detail, <em> some </em> small thread which would lead him to the answer… </p><p>“That’s a selkie tale.” Blech -- had Laurence even been <em> listening? </em>Or had he simply happened upon the answer the way he fell into every other piece of good fortune? </p><p>It was Tharkay’s turn to roll his eyes and glance sidelong at Granby. “And in a turn of events which surprises no one, William I Served As First Officer on the Argo Laurence has identified the story of the woman who lives between sea and land, wearing a different skin on each.” </p><p>Oh, had that one slipped out?</p><p>He had fancied himself more or less ready to address certain happenings between them with equanimity, but -- well, perhaps he wasn’t <em> quite </em> as composed about it as he’d thought. </p><p>Granby snickered. “Should’ve known you’d catch that tale, Mr. William I Piss Seawater Laurence.” And <em> no </em>reaction, none at all from the man himself. </p><p>
  <em> Blech.  </em>
</p><p>Tharkay scoffed. “Mr. William All My Verbs Are Properly Declined Laurence.” </p><p>Ahhh yes, <em> there </em> was the answering spark in Laurence’s expression: he could never resist a challenge. “Properly declined verbs, is it?” He met Tharkay’s eyes with a smirk. “I’ll show you properly declined verbs.” </p><p>One of Tharkay’s eyebrows quirked, just a touch: it was nice to see a little heat in that cool gaze. “I should like to see you try, William Laurence.” </p><p>When Laurence took the stage it was to hoots and jeers from his audience. He waited for it to die down with rather good humor, to his credit, and then he -- he -- he --</p><p>“ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα,” he began, and a trill of delighted laughter escaped Tharkay’s lips. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ,” continued Laurence. <br/>πλάγχθη, ἐπεὶ Τροίης ἱερὸν πτολίεθρον ἔπερσεν. <br/>πολλῶν δ᾽ ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω,<br/>πολλὰ δ᾽ ὅ γ᾽ ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμόν,<br/>ἀρνύμενος ἥν τε ψυχὴν καὶ νόστον ἑταίρων...” </p>
</blockquote><p>How was it that Laurence knew the classics -- and not only <em> knew </em> them, but could <em> recite them in Ancient Greek? </em> Tharkay had of course had it all hammered into his memory by dint of his years at Harrow, but Laurence had been at sea since the age of <em> twelve…    </em></p><p>He supposed it was past time to stop being surprised by the ways in which Laurence managed to surprise him, but, well -- it was just so <em>surprising, </em>so far from what Tharkay expected that even when he tried to <em>anticipate</em> the surprises he was <em>still surprised,</em> every time -- it was remarkable, really; it was astonishing; it was -- it was <em>surprising, </em>and -- no, <em>surely</em> not -- no, <em>yes </em>-- yes, Laurence was <em>still </em>going! </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “...The other gods<br/></em> <em> Were assembled in the halls of Olympian Zeus,<br/></em> <em> And the Father of Gods and Men was speaking.<br/></em> <em> He couldn’t stop thinking about Aegisthus, <br/></em> <em> Whom Agamemnon’s son, Orestes had killed.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Tharkay grinned and began taking down his braid: he knew what came next. </p><p><em> “‘Mortals!’” </em> said Laurence-as-Zeus with great affect.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “‘They are always blaming the gods <br/></em><em>For their troubles, where their own witlessness </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Causes them more than they were destined for! </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Take Aegisthus now. He marries Agamemnon’s<br/></em> <em> Lawful wife and murders the man on his return </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Knowing it meant disaster -- because we did warn him, </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Sent our messenger, quicksilver Hermes, </em> <em><br/></em> <em> To tell him not to kill the man and marry his wife, </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Or Agamemnon’s son, Orestes, would pay him back </em> <em><br/></em> <em> When he came of age and wanted his inheritance. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Hermes told him all that, but his good advice </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Meant nothing to Aegisthus. Now he’s paid in full.’”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Tharkay had by now piled his hair atop his head in a semblance of a coronet. Laurence’s eyes were on him, blazing bright with challenge as he gave the next line: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> “Wise Athena glared at him with her owl-grey eyes…”   </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>… and Tharkay leapt up to answer it, brandishing an imaginary spear. </p><p><em> “‘Yes, O our father who art most high,” </em> he said with greatest melodrama. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “That man got the death he richly deserved, </em> <em><br/></em> <em> And so perish all who would do the same. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> But it’s Odysseus I’m worried about, </em> <em><br/></em> <em> That discerning, ill-fated man. He’s suffered<br/></em> <em> So long, separated from his dear ones <br/></em> <em> On an island that lies in the center of the sea.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Thunderous applause, mostly from Temeraire, and a steam-shout from Iskierka. </p><p>“Someday, Laurence,” said Tharkay quietly beneath the cheers, “you will have to tell me how it is that you know Homer so well.” </p><p>Laurence bowed. “I am at your service.” A devious smile -- <em> oh. </em> Was that <em> flirtation?  </em></p><p>Well, then. Perhaps they were ready to address it, after all. </p><p>“Doesn’t seem <em> that </em>hard,” muttered Demane. </p><p>“All right, then, if you think you can do better,” called Tharkay, turning around. “A new knife each to the pair who can best Laurence and me in Homeric declamation.”</p><p>“Well, <em> that </em> isn’t fair,” interjected Iskierka. “Whatever am I to do with a knife?” </p><p>“Should you and your captain win, dear Iskierka, I shall make sure that yours is inlaid with pearl and encrusted in jewels.” </p><p>“All right, then.” Iskierka exhaled more steam. “Granby! We had better get reading!”  </p><p>“Thanks ever so,” grumbled Granby. </p><p>“But where do we get the <em> books?” </em>There was a light in Roland’s eyes: she and Demane would certainly be gunning for the prize. </p><p>Tharkay glanced at Laurence again. “I’m sure between us we can find enough copies for your study. My turn, then?” </p><p>He did not wait for Laurence to respond but instead beckoned Sipho forward: although none of the others spoke Newari, his opposite player only needed to sit still for this one; and it was much easier to tell the tale when there was someone to step into the other role. This was a story Tharkay knew well, of course, but he had never played <em> this </em> particular part before. </p><p>“Your aji has a most special day prepared for you, my lovely Tenzing.” </p><p>The child babbled as if in response: he did not know how to <em> speak </em> yet, not really, but she loved conversating with him nonetheless. </p><p>“Why, you ask?” She lifted him up and sat him on a ledge. “Well, today, O my beloved child, my shining star, we celebrate Indra Jatra -- the coming of the Navadurgas to Bhaktapur, here in our little corner of the Kathmandu Valley, nestled in our mothers’ embrace.”</p><p>She dusted off his feet -- and then tickled his bare brown toes. </p><p>Ah, his <em> laughter </em> -- gurgling like fresh snowmelt, bubbly and sweet. She had not thought it possible, to feel this <em> deeply, </em> but <em> oh -- </em> when he’d been born -- when she’d drawn him into the world, and cradled him in her arms, and -- and -- he’d blinked his eyes open<em>, </em> curious and bright, and -- </p><p>O Ghana, O Shikali Devi -- here, <em> right here, </em> this -- it was as if all of the love she had for her daughter had coalesced into a single incarnation, had opened its eyes and smiled up at her with <em> recognition.  </em> </p><p>“The Jatra of Mother Durga is our most precious tradition,” she sang as she began to dress him. “She is the divine mother, presider over the seasons of life, death, and birth; the liberator of the oppressed and marginalized; the spirit of the warrior.”   </p><p>It was just as well that Lumanti was off with her Englishman husband more often than not these days, addled as they were by the throes of young love. It would wear off eventually, to be sure, but for now it suited her just fine -- Lumanti would always be her daughter, of course; her beloved child no matter <em> how </em> grown she was; but Tenzing -- well. </p><p>Tenzing was her <em> baby.  </em></p><p>“She holds the weapons of all the gods in her many hands: Siva’s trident and Visnu’s discus -- </p><p>His hands, <em> oh, </em>his little fingers, curling around her thumbs as she took his hands in hers to show him how Mother Durga contained within herself all of the aspects of the divine: the source of all creation. </p><p>“And today for the jatra, O precious jewel of mine, you will sit with your aji on the temple steps as an incarnation of our divine mother, for you contain her spark within <em> you.” </em> As she sang she added a touch of kohl to his eyes, and pressed a thumb dipped in abir-powder right between his eyebrows. </p><p>“You will be attired in silk and gold, wearing the face of one of the Navadurgas of Bhaktapur -- ” </p><p>She brought him the enormous mask they had made together, painted and lacquered, and showed him how it would sit behind them.   </p><p>“You will receive offerings of <em> dvapho-</em>flowers and samebaji -- your favorite!” She tickled his toes again. “See how your aji has already made the first offering-plate?” </p><p>She brought the platter before him, took his hand in hers once more to point out each food. “The samebaji symbolizes good fortune, health, longevity, prosperity. We have the baji with samay, of course, and the bhuti -- the black-eyed peas -- and aloo-wala, and achar, and khya --” </p><p>And then he looked up, and -- “Aji?” </p><p>Oh. </p><p>He had never <em> spoken a word </em> before. </p><p>“Aji.” </p><p>Her baby -- her <em> baby. </em> She’d borne so many names, <em> so </em> many titles… and this was the most precious of all: <em> Aji. </em> His first word -- her duty, her honor, her <em> call.  </em></p><p>“Jatra, Aji?” </p><p>Tharkay blinked very, very hard, and angled his body so that only Sipho could see him dashing away the tears that had suddenly sprung to his eyes. “Yes.”  </p><p>“Did he get it?” That was Temeraire, surely. </p><p>“Did that count?” Iskierka. </p><p>“That was very well done, Sipho,” said Tharkay quietly. “Very well done indeed.” </p><p>“What’s ja-trah?” asked Roland. “What’s ah-jee?” </p><p>Tharkay turned to face their audience. “Sipho has correctly identified the salient aspects of the tale. Jatra means ‘festival’ -- this was a story of preparing for Indra Jatra, a religious festival which takes place annually in villages throughout the Kathmandu valley.” </p><p>“So he got it?” </p><p>“Yes.” Tharkay fair collapsed onto the deck against Temeraire’s flank, breathing rather hard for not having exerted himself at all. “To you, Monsieur Storyteller.” </p><p>Sipho’s grin was brilliant like diamonds, like pearls, like stars. As he began to speak Tharkay closed his eyes to let the story wash over him, glad to have something else on which to concentrate. He tried not to pick out individual words so much as rhythms and cadences, phrasing and syntax -- languages were just another kind of pattern: complex, ever-changing, infinitely versatile. If he listened not to the words but to the river underneath, he might imagine the flow… </p><p>
  <em> Once upon a time, far away in the land of the amaXhosa, there lived two brothers: an elder and a younger…   </em>
</p><p>Sipho’s voice caught, just a little --</p><p>
  <em> They lived happily with their family: all their aunts and uncles and elders and fathers and mothers --  </em>
</p><p>Demane sprang to his feet. He said something in Xhosa, something which had a sharp jagged edge. </p><p>
  <em> -- and they fought and tussled like brothers, and they ran and played, and nobody ever hurt them --  </em>
</p><p>Sipho’s eyes were sparkling like diamonds, like raindrops, like dew; his voice was wavering. </p><p>--<em> one day, the elder brother was going away for his first hunt, and the younger brother was lonely --  </em></p><p>Demane’s voice was hoarse and raw, and he barked something which made Sipho sniff hard and wipe his face, but he -- he kept telling the story, even so… <em> oh, </em> the fortitude of this child, the tenacity, the <em> valor…  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- he followed his brother into the bush, and while they were gone --  </em>
</p><p>“Shut up, shut up, shut <em> up!” </em>Demane had switched to English. “You shame us both with your womanly weeping!” </p><p>The tableau was frozen for a moment: Sipho on their makeshift stage, Demane on his feet in anger, the rest of the audience silent as the grave. If Sipho had been fighting back tears before this put him over the edge; he turned away with a wail, hiding his face in his hands, and ran off into the darkness toward the bow. Demane did not look at the others but instead took off in the other direction, vanishing rather more quickly and quietly than his brother. </p><p>One beat, then two, and then -- </p><p>“Well, that was just awful, wasn’t it,” said Roland. </p><p>“Why was Demane angry?” asked Temeraire. “Why was Sipho crying? Why did Demane <em> make </em> Sipho cry?” </p><p>“And does this mean that the contest is off?” That was Iskierka, of course. “Because I am very much looking forward to winning a jeweled knife, and it would be <em> most </em> unfair for them to have ruined it for all of us just because they don’t know how to conduct themselves properly.” </p><p>Tharkay looked to Granby, who raised both hands. “You don’t want me handling this. I’ll stay here, see to the dragons and young Roland.” Roland looked as if she wanted to comment, but at a look from Granby she closed her mouth. </p><p>Well, that only left -- oh. </p><p>Laurence was already looking at him with that steady, <em> considering </em> stare. “I will take the stern.” </p><p>Tharkay shrugged. “Suppose that leaves me the bow, then.” </p><p>  </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>“You’d better be up to this, squirmy.”  </p><p>Teeth, and hot breath -- he was caught in the predator’s gaze. </p><p>
  <em> Be still: you are prey.  </em>
</p><p>“I know, I <em> know -- we </em> know you may not be <em> quite </em>as useless as the rest of these crawlers, but two twice-picked carcasses don’t make a whole sheep if you know what I’m saying -- ” </p><p>Arkady talked a big game, but Wringe was the one to worry about. </p><p>“-- puny brain can’t hold them all Temeraire has promised to get someone to do that <em> Ri-ting </em>thing --” </p><p>She bent down close to sniff at his crotch, then his underarms, and then she moved up to nose at his hair -- </p><p>“-- our egg hasn’t made a <em>perfect </em>azgrakh, understand?” Arkady finished. </p><p>-- and Tharkay held very, very still.</p><p>Wringe pulled back to stare hard into his face. Tharkay met her gaze; it would shame all three of them for him to appear cowed before her. “uˀrcq”ilniyaan Rtk”oorrRRssshhhhxxlluˀ,” she rumbled finally -- and Tharkay’s <em> bones </em> vibrated in resonance. “Ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ.”</p><p>He bowed deeply. “You honor me, ya'ShikaaRi’lሄxooR.” </p><p>Wringe crouched and took off without another word. Arkady followed, looping around in a lazy spiral before turning around once more to call:  “...and don’t fuck it up, or we’ll tear you limb from limb!” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Sipho was sitting alone on the prow. </p><p>“May I join you?” Best to ask, first. </p><p>Sipho nodded. </p><p>Tharkay climbed up beside him, and Sipho sniffled, pretending not to weep. Together they looked out over the serene ocean, rippling like starlit glass: they were not <em> quite </em> becalmed, but it was close. </p><p>“I’m not a <em> baby </em> or anything,” said Sipho after a while. “I just can’t help it, sometimes.”</p><p><em> Aiiieeeeee </em> -- something in his chest was fracturing, splintering, <em> cleaving -- </em> no, <em> no, </em> this could not stand. Tharkay took in a breath. </p><p>“Far away and long ago,” he began softly, “high in the Kathmandu valley, deep within in the heart of the Himalaya, there lived a woman whose husband was a priest.” He did not look at Sipho, but he could feel him listening nonetheless.  </p><p>“One day, the woman’s husband fell into a high fever. He was very weak, and very ill. She nursed him with great care and tenderness, and when he was finally sleeping peacefully, she left the temple grounds to fetch more food and medicine.</p><p>“While she was gone, a group of villagers came to the temple. They found the unconscious priest and thought him dead -- and a corpse within the temple is an ill omen indeed. The villagers grew angry, and when the woman returned they seized her, for they had laid the blame for her husband’s death at her feet.” Winking stars, ripple-glass ocean. </p><p>“The mob bore both the woman and her husband down to the Bagmati river, where they began to build a pyre. They bound her to it, intending to cremate the priest -- and her with him. </p><p>“At this moment, the woman began to weep, and to sing, and to pray.” The waning moon was peeking over the horizon, gibbous and massive, looking like nothing so much as an enormous pearl nestled between the shells of sky and sea.  </p><p>“Before the mob could light the pyre a great thunderclap sounded, and there came torrential rain, a storm such as the villagers had never seen -- for Shikali Devi had heard and answered the woman’s prayers. </p><p>“The mob retreated back to their homes, intending to return after the storm was over to complete the cremation; but the rain had woken the woman’s husband, and though he was weak, he managed to free her from the pyre just in time, for the river soon rose and swept the logs away.” Well, and it seemed the river was rising within himself, too: the path of the moon on the water was blurring.  </p><p>“But when the woman carried her husband back to the village to take shelter, one by one the couple’s neighbors chose to cast them out; for they believed the couple carriers of ill luck. Finally, after having been been refused by every one of their neighbors, the woman bore her husband away with her into exile -- weeping all the while.” The river had begun to overflow its banks; Tharkay sniffed hard, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. </p><p>“They wandered far and wide, and the woman kept herself and her husband alive, even as they were driven from their home -- for he was still very sick, and close to death. Finally she decided they would settle in Kudesh -- ‘kudesh’ means bad place -- a land nobody wanted.</p><p>“But the woman and her husband prayed again to Shikali Devi, who had saved them once before in her mercy, and the goddess blessed them. They grew bountiful crops and built strong foundations, and soon outcasts began coming from far and wide to make their homes there, too, for the woman and her husband welcomed all. </p><p>“She named their place Khokana, which comes from the word ‘khona’ -- ‘telling while weeping,’ in my mother tongue. And Khokana -- the village founded by a weeping woman -- is still there today, hundreds of years later: high in the Kathmandu Valley, in the heart of the Himalaya, on the banks of the Bagmati river.</p><p>Finally Tharkay chanced to look down at Sipho, and oh, <em> oh, ohhhhhhh -- </em>tears were streaming down Sipho’s cheeks: the mirror of his own, but he was smiling a little even so…</p><p>“We tell the stories that make us weep, Sipho, because they are the ones we must remember,” said Tharkay, low and emphatic. “There is no shame in weeping, none at all -- nor in being a woman, for that matter. Weeping signifies great depth and strength of feeling, and that strength becomes resolve, and resolve begets action.” He lifted a hand. “May I?” At Sipho’s nod, Tharkay put an arm around his shoulders to draw him close.</p><p>Pearly sea, rippling waves, tiny hiccups -- Tharkay’s voice wavered <em> just </em> a bit. “Let’s stay here and weep together a little while longer, shall we?”  </p><p>Sipho nodded against his shoulder. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q) What was Arkady saying to Tharkay on the ship?<br/>Arkady: only bestowing the highest possible honor nbd fuck you </p><p>~*~Bonus~*~</p><p>Q) Does Kulingile speak Xhosa?<br/>Tharkay: you bet your ass he does </p><p>Q) Did nb*** spend 40 minutes of a Monday work meeting making up Durzagh grammar, syntax, and vocab?<br/>nb***: you bet your ass i did </p><p>*** </p><p>References: </p><p>Homer., &amp; Lombardo, S. (2000). Odyssey. Indianapolis: Hackett.</p><p>^^ I chose this particular translation of the Odyssey solely because it’s the paperback version I had lying around… and then once I did, I realized that it’s actually beautifully fitting for this story on a couple levels, so. </p><p>I would also be remiss in writing all of this without connecting it to contemporary Newari cultural conservation efforts, as if all this existed only in the realm of historical fiction and weren’t part of a struggle that remains ongoing today, right now in 2020. Indigenous peoples all over the world face erasure and oppression, and from my own cultural context it’s important to remember that this week in particular (the so-called American Thanksgiving), and to join the struggle with our Indigenous relatives as we are able. </p><p>Here are some of the Instagram accounts I’ve been following to learn about the stories and traditions depicted in this chapter. </p><p>@jatraa_of_nepal ( ← cn: this account has depictions of an animal sacrifice as part of a religious ceremony in a couple of recent photos on their grid)<br/>@nepaljatras<br/>@the.newars </p><p>The line about what it’s like to see your grandchild being born (original quote: “it was like all the love I had for my daughter opened its eyes and smiled at me”) comes from an aji I once spent twenty minutes in a rideshare with and I think about it all. the. time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Liberation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No Man’s Mama by the Carolina Chocolate Drops, because Dom Flemons and Rhiannon Giddens used to be in a band together and it was the best thing to happen to US folk music since Odetta</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Liberation ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Pemberton unburdens herself</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*** </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lock’s click was rather satisfying indeed. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You</span>
  </em>
  <span> look well,” said Tharkay from his sickbed.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>well,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> said Pemberton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me, I know,” said Tharkay. “Is that a <em>sewing-basket</em> on your arm? Quite the flower of British womanhood, aren't you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Believe me.” Pemberton rolled her eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I know.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do </span>
  </em>
  <span>come closer, let me have a look at you -- oh for mercy’s sake, Alice, you’ve turned into Demeter herself.” Pemberton had always been tall for a woman, and her striking beauty had only deepened and mellowed with age. When paired with her substantial girth it all made for a most seraphic presence, indeed -- she was positively stunning. “They must have been eating out of your hand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was only too easy.” She laughed and came to settle beside him. “Let one of them cry into your bosom and the rest fall in line like ducklings, and I’ve bosoms enough to go around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Won’t you take that off, while we’re here? The room is secure, and I miss your real voice.” It was his prerogative as an invalid to whine a <em>little, </em>surely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and me both, a chara.” Her vowels softened and broadened as she relaxed into her natural brogue. “I liked it better speaking French, truth be told. Shall we get to measuring?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you insist,” said Tharkay. It had been a rather long day; all he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted to do was share a pipe with Laurence and sleep, but… well, duty called. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So tell me,” said Pemberton as she wrapped the measuring tape around his ribcage. “Whose idea was it, yours or his? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The stays, you mean? Those were his.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good craic, a chara.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, truly -- I do think his mind tends toward the transgressive much more often than most give him credit for.” --</span>
  <em>
    <span> depths I have not plumbed -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or perhaps you induce it in him.” She winked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raised an eyebrow. “In this state? Hardly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t be so sure. You didn’t see him making that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> for you, in the mountains.” Measuring done, she went back to her sewing-basket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What thing would that be?”</span>
</p><p><span>“Oh, you know.” She flapped a hand. “The Charm of Everlasting Friendship, or Bracelet of Eternal Devotion, or whatever it’s called -- he worked for </span><em><span>weeks</span></em><span> on it, insisted on doing it all himself, you know. I’ve never seen a person so mad for thread</span><em><span> --</span></em><span> and that</span> <span>includes that Armenian seamstress, back in Baghdad.” --</span><em><span> seems rather Laborious to me -- </span></em></p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Well, then. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>That --</span>
  </em>
  <span> he can’t help it, poor man; it’s in his blood,” said Tharkay. “Eight hundred years of good English wool will do that to anybody.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, is that where their wealth comes from?” Her scissors flashed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm-hmm. Went straight from byre to ship, did young William Laurence.” -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I tend the Herds; I build with Temeraire; and I am… happy, almost as if I were a boy again; I find myself Strangely Content here, in this little valley --</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Pemberton smirked. “What a completely </span>
  <em>
    <span>wholesome </span>
  </em>
  <span>family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“According to Gong Su he drew the whole thing for the Imperial envoy, on the ship to Peking,” Tharkay added. “Right back to the Norman conquest, cadet branches and all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pemberton rolled her eyes. “Someday I want the two of you to hear the way you talk of each other. Two peas in a pod, you are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am Living. I am Learning How --</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t give me </span>
  <em>
    <span>that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>In Brazil I was forced to listen to him wax poetic about your </span>
  <em>
    <span>prowess</span>
  </em>
  <span> in everything from combat to navigation to </span>
  <em>
    <span>tongues -- bleaaaargh.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She mimed retching. “I had half a mind to tell him about some of the scrapes you and Sara used to get us into, back in the day.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, but we always got right back out of them too, didn’t we?” -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I follow your example -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true enough,” said Pemberton. “I’m glad you got out of this one, a chara.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I, if I’m being honest. यें देसं दना वना खोप देसे बास जुल</span>
  <span>…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Having left Yamdesa, they stayed the night in Khopadesa… </span>
  </em>
  <span>oh, was he drifting? He was drifting, but it was all right; Pemberton’s presence at his side brought as much comfort as any of his fellows’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are Sara and the rest?” Those vowels, like soft rain, speaking of </span>
  <em>
    <span>family…</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Is Ruth well?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s walking and talking, if you can believe it,” he murmured, “and already expresses very strong opinions, of course -- she’s even got a favorite book.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon? She was about as capable as a garden slug the last time I saw her, and that wasn’t even two years ago.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” said Tharkay. “It’s ridiculous, how the time passes. I hope you’ll forgive me...” He closed his eyes. “...तलेजु माजु दरसन याये.</span>
  <span>” …</span>
  <em>
    <span>to visit the shrine of Mother Taleju -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doze away, Captain Tharkay,” said Pemberton. “We both know this will take me a while.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled. “So.” Though he felt better with his eyes closed against the light, sleep was yet a little ways off. “Anything of interest to report?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was both my hardest and easiest assignment yet, I think. Do you know, it’s positively wild how good a cover being a woman is, even when your target is a man who actually respects women’s intellect, by and large.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tharkay smirked. “Does that come as a surprise?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but -- I mean, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>astounding, </span>
  </em>
  <span>truly. Take Anahuarque, for instance -- beautiful, cold, and terrifying: she encourages them to think her a silly and frivolous creature, for it allows her to do as she pleases.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmmph. Are you sure you’re not speaking of yourself?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ach, well,” said Pemberton. “She was the most pleasant part of the mission altogether, if I’m being honest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Waaaaait,” said Tharkay, and opened his eyes wide. “You didn’t, did you?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too messy, even for me.” She sighed, wistful. “She had the rest of her generals and lords dancing on her strings, but your captain cottoned on to her design triple-quick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he, now?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s my Will. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “Called it Penelope’s game, he did -- he’s surprisingly well-read, for an officer in His Majesty’s Service.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it features the sea in any capacity, he devoured it as a boy,” said Tharkay. “And that one is a particular favorite of his, so it happens.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>-- Speak, Memory -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, and there’s that madness for </span>
  <em>
    <span>thread</span>
  </em>
  <span> showing up again, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am enclosing a sample -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, that’s why it was easy,” said Tharkay. “What made it hard?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They have,” said Pemberton emphatically, “so many </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> needs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She went on. “I don’t know how you do it -- no, seriously, I really fucking don’t -- never have I had a more exhausting -- Emily is wonderful, make no mistake, but the rest of them --” She shuddered. “And even </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> is such a -- such a -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>child! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Augh!  </span>
</p><p><span>“Never again will I take another assignment in the services, I promise you -- I was truly relieved when I was thrown into that snake pit De Guignes called a salon; at least </span><em><span>they’re</span></em> <em><span>sensible grown women</span></em><span> who are all </span><em><span>reasonable </span></em><span>and </span><em><span>logical </span></em><span>creatures.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Whatever do you mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’you know, all kinds of </span>
  <em>
    <span>absurd</span>
  </em>
  <span> behaviors are encouraged in that -- that </span>
  <em>
    <span>insane </span>
  </em>
  <span>environment -- for instance, one night when I went to get my supper, I found them taking turns jumping over the cookfire for </span>
  <em>
    <span>no discernible reason...” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot remember the last time my motivation for any action was simply to See If I Could, but I am delighted by the Smallest Things, these days -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“...and when I asked them why, Emily had the nerve to back-talk me </span>
  <em>
    <span>in that dragon-tongue!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, was she winning? She usually wins, though Demane has been giving her a run for her money lately.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ach, you’re as bad as the rest of them, aren't you -- ”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>attributing the most outlandish feats and abilities to your name -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Guilty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ -- and they all just continue to </span>
  <em>
    <span>need things -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>and ugh, when your captain had reverted back to his original state -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>blech</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Was he like that when you met him?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little better, perhaps, but not by much.” -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>when I Consider the man I might have Become -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ugh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I cannot even imagine. I did not think I would miss…” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- Nice to have a Reason to think of You, of an Evening -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Mm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well he’s actually quite -- d’you know, I’m really very glad that I was the one who got this assignment, because you and I both know exactly how many of our colleagues would have let him live to pull off that little </span>
  <em>
    <span>stunt</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Brazil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have done Some Thing --</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never seen the like -- not only did he </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen </span>
  </em>
  <span>to them -- he called her </span>
  <em>
    <span>lady, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I had not thought I’d ever appreciate those </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span> titles he uses, but it was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>effective --</span>
  </em>
  <span> he </span>
  <em>
    <span>made</span>
  </em>
  <span> the rest of them follow his example, backed as he is by the full might of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal influence</span>
  </em>
  <span> in China and -- well, nominally at least -- Britain.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- I Dare to Hope that you might be Proud of me --</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“They would have found so many ways to squirm out of holding to the spirit of the agreement, but he made </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> they didn’t. It was -- oh, it was glorious, Tenzing. I wish you could have seen it. Shall we try this on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>should never have been effected without your Gracious Influence upon my Conscience and my Character -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he said when the stays had been laced. “Oh, that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> better.” His breaths were rather shallow, but his ribs were supported and braced as they had not been with the bandages alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll leave the extra panels; you could almost get two of these from just the one of mine.” said Pemberton. “Surely your captain will want to cobble together another for you; he’ll probably even want to redo my seams.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If anyone could, it’d be him.” -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>the most outlandish feats and abilities to your name -- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Blech.</span>
  </em>
  <span> What did I say, about the way you two talk of each other?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At this point it’s entirely for your benefit,” said Tharkay. “You shouldn’t have shown me your weakness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighed in defeat. “I must admit, that’s some captain you’ve got. I like him, for all his irritating concern for us fair and delicate flowers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I daresay Roland will set him right, one of these days,” said Tharkay, and had to breathe in again before adding: “And if not her, then her mother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pemberton laughed. “If you witness either you must report to me; it is sure to be an excellent story.” She extended her hand. “Should you see Sara before I do, pray give her my love.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Likewise.” He had not let any-one touch his hands save Laurence and the surgeon; the re-breaking of his fingers had been… well. But Alice had offered, and -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>suppose it would be churlish to refuse -- </span>
  </em>
  <span>slowly, slowly, Tharkay placed his hand in hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She clasped it gently, and laid her other hand over top. “Slán agat, a chara.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slán leat,” he replied, and smiled.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Bleeeeach.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She mimed retching once more. “Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> you remembered.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q) What was it like to be chaperone to all those feckless aviators?<br/>Pemberton: I AM THE ORIGINAL WENDY DARLING. </p><p>~*~Bonus~*~</p><p>Q) Why does Tharkay trust Pemberton?</p><p>Pemberton: Éirinn go Brách<br/>Tharkay: *eyebrow*<br/>Preeti: hey what’s your insta</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Improvisation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Samba Do Sol by Music from the Sole &amp; Gregory Richardson</p><p>Speaking of Odetta, there will come a point where this will add to your experience: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38dOYW7-B0E</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Improvisation ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Gherni gives no quarter </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>-- </p><p>---   - - - - </p><p>
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  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p><p>“----- - - - - - - -   --   --  -  - - - -     `-`` -- ` -`-   o  - - - -     = - - - - -.”  </p><p> </p><p>“- - - - - - - -     -     +++  - -  - +++  == = = --- ~~--_~__~---_~_-`-`-_~_.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>The best part about flying alone with Gherni was the <em> quiet.  </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>- - - - - - </p><p>-- -   -- - -     --- -   - -</p><p> - - - </p><p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
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  <br/>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“== = = ----  --- `-`-`~~~== + ``------ -- -   -   - --   - -   -”  </p><p> </p><p>“~~--__ ++ [ =+++ = ] -- - -   -  - -    -   -   -   -  -  - ---       --- - - ---      --   ~~`~.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>She didn’t talk much, but she liked to sing. Sometimes they were songs Tharkay knew, but most of the time they weren’t. Most of the time, they weren’t songs <em> anybody </em> knew, just -- </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“.&gt;.....&gt;.....&gt;....&gt;....&gt;.&gt;.&gt;.&gt;.&gt;.&gt;&gt;&gt;..&gt;&gt;..&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;....&gt;.&gt;.” </p><p>“&lt;,&lt;,&lt;,,,,&lt;&lt;&lt;,&lt;&lt;,&lt;&lt;,,,,,&lt;,&lt;&lt;&lt;,&lt;&lt;,,&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;,,,&lt;,&lt;,&lt;,&lt;,&lt;,,&lt;” </p><p>“&gt;&gt;&gt;.&lt;&lt;&lt;.&gt;&gt;&gt;.&lt;&lt;&lt;.&gt;&gt;.&lt;&lt;.&gt;&gt;..&lt;&lt;..&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;......&lt;&lt;&lt;&lt;.&gt;” </p><p>“&lt;&lt;&lt;,&gt;&gt;&gt;,&lt;&lt;&lt;,&lt;&lt;&lt;... <em> fuck,” </em> said Tharkay. </p><p>A trill, and a head waggle. “Liked what you were going for, though.” </p><p>They crossed whole continents that way. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Tharkay had long figured out that Gherni was <em> much </em> older than she looked. The smaller dragons were the longer-lived they tended to be; Gherni was perhaps the size of a draft-horse, and the thin membranous skin around her eyes looked like nothing so much as dried apple-skin, wrinkled and soft. </p><p>Her position within the pack was difficult to discern. She did not seem to bear any special status in particular that he could tell: she was not the one to determine the eating order -- that honor went to Wringe -- and she did not speak for the pack -- that was Arkady. And as she was rather small and brightly colored, she was not particularly well-suited to either fighting or stealth; and yet somehow, the more time he spent with the pack, the more certain he became that Gherni was more than she seemed at first glance. </p><p>For one thing, she slept <em> all the time. </em> That in itself was bizarre enough: that the other pack members allowed it -- more than allowed it; they even suffered to <em> carry </em> her while she slept, if they were on the move. For another thing, during her waking hours Gherni seemed to have no particular concerns or motivations, no duties to perform -- she simply did <em> whatever she wanted, </em> with whomever happened to be doing it at the time: going on patrol, or scouting enemy positions, or… or rolling around in mud, and then diving into the sea, and then doing it all over again. She would amble about the camp, and if she looked at all peckish she would be offered -- not the <em> choicest </em> pieces of meat, precisely, but always the same ones over and over, as if they were the ones she preferred. And when Tharkay had asked the pack who should carry him back to the Pamirs, Gherni was the unanimous choice -- strange business, indeed. </p><p>He thought that he had <em> finally </em> hit it when he came upon what he thought was the last missing clue: nearly every pack member seemed to carry Gherni’s name as part of theirs, somehow. Anytime Arkady identified himself to other dragons, he always gave a litany of titles: Arkady tlᵜrcq°Toquix’kan’OmaaRu tlkᵜilniyoutt°Gherni taᵜNkaatrrr°llሄtch°Karakoram… or Wringe’s: Wringe tlᵜrcq°Ntzoka’ka’Tor tlkᵜilniyoutt°Gherni taᵜShikaaRi°llሄtch°Karakoram… everyone else’s seemed to be the same. </p><p>Oh yes, Tharkay had thought himself <em> so </em> clever, when he’d asked Arkady if Gherni was the pack’s… great-great-grandmother? Elder? Ancestor? He couldn’t <em> quite </em> get the word across, in Durzagh, but when he finally did Arkady burst into raucous laughter. </p><p>“Why would anyone keep track of <em> that?” </em>he asked, when he finally came back down to earth -- having had to briefly take flight to contain himself. “Sometimes you’re even stupider than I thought, squirmy.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Prickles on the back of his neck. </p><p>
  <em> Be still.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You are prey.  </em>
</p><p>The French dragons emerged from nowhere, it seemed -- and he was caught out, alone. Left fending for himself, per usual. </p><p>“Messieurs,” he said. “Veuillez me dire --” </p><p>
  <em> BOOM! </em>
</p><p>Gherni landed with a thud directly between him and the enemy, her tail positioned rather rudely in the direction of the lead dragon. </p><p><em> “There </em> you are,” she said to Tharkay in perfect Mandarin. “Lung Tien Lien is most dissatisfied with your inability to arrive in a timely manner, <em> most </em> dissatisfied indeed.” </p><p>He responded with a flurry of apologies and prostrations. </p><p>“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped, and then turning to address the other dragons she slid effortlessly into French. “Well? Did you expect Madame Lien to be blind and deaf to the affairs of her home?” </p><p>Tharkay had already climbed onto her back by the end of the sentence. </p><p>Gherni didn’t wait for a response. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He couldn’t help but whoop as they broke through the clouds into sparkling sunlight. Gherni had been <em> magnificent </em> -- he hadn’t known she even <em> spoke </em> French, but her performance -- <em> flawless. </em> Absolutely flawless! He wanted to shout with relief, he wanted to ululate, he wanted to <em> sing…  </em></p><p>Apparently Gherni had the same idea, for she began a series of whistles and clicks, winding them together to create a beat and counterpoint which seemed -- familiar, somehow? Yes… after a few bars he realized that he <em> knew </em> the melody to go with this beat and harmony… and after a few <em> more </em> bars, Tharkay realized that it was time for him to come in.  </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Come, you masters of war,” </em> he sang. <em> “You that build all the guns<br/></em> <em> You that build the death ships, you that build the big bombs...” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>This song was properly a duet, with rhyming couplets traded back and forth as one kept time while the other sang. After singing the first verse, Tharkay took up the beat and the whistle… </p><p>And yes, Gherni sang: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “You who hide behind titles, you who hide behind walls<br/></em> <em> You who send others to die at your call.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>After that it was Tharkay’s turn to sing again as Gherni took up the beat once more. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “You that never done nothin’ but build to destroy<br/></em> <em> You play with my world like it’s your little toy.”   </em></p>
</blockquote><p>-- and then finally one more trade, as Gherni came in singing: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “You put hate in my heart and you hide from my eyes<br/></em> <em> And you turn and run scared when the warriors fly.” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>This was the end of the opening verses; from here on out it was for the players to create and trade their own couplets on the spot, each one singing in turn while the other kept time. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “You tear out our tongues and poison our names,<br/></em> <em> And even your stories deny us our pain,” </em> sang Tharkay. </p>
  <p><em> “You lay claim to our land as if that makes you strong,<br/></em> <em> But your roots grow weak when the shadows grow long,” </em> Gherni answered. </p>
  <p><em> “In the sunset of days when your threads have been spun,<br/></em> <em> Will you think yourself worthy? Will you think that you’ve won?” </em></p>
  <p><em> “Oh, the seeds have been scattered, and your riches amassed,<br/></em> <em> But there is no future without a past.” </em></p>
  <p><em> “The bodies you’ve broken one day will rise,<br/></em> <em> As the dust of the earth and the fire in the skies.”  </em></p>
  <p><em> “To create for destruction, for gain without end,<br/></em> <em> You tear apart worlds and leave others to mend.”  </em></p>
  <p><em> “You fasten the triggers for the others to fire,” </em> sang Tharkay, and then -- per the next stage of the duet -- took up the beat, leaving Gherni to find the rhyme.<br/><em> “Then you sit back and watch while the death count gets higher,” </em> she answered. </p>
  <p><em> “You look to your profits as young people’s blood,” </em> sang Tharkay. <br/><em> “Flows out of their bodies and is buried in the mud,” </em> sang Gherni, and then -- </p>
  <p>-- she took the next line. <em> “You’ve thrown the worst fear that can ever be hurled.”<br/></em> Tharkay scrambled. <em> “Fear to bring children into the world.”  </em></p>
  <p><em> “For threatening our futures unborn and unnamed,” </em> sang Gherni --<br/>-- and Tharkay finished it. <em> “You ain’t worth the blood that runs in your veins.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Later that night, when Tharkay was sitting in front of their campfire and Gherni lying curled around him, he ventured to ask, “How is it that you know all these songs? And in so many tongues?” </p><p>She opened her mouth, and: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>“When you were formless, forming<br/></em> <em> The cosmos contained within you:<br/></em> <em> Your spark, drawn into the world by breath;<br/></em> <em> You sprang into the world with memory </em></p>
  <p><em> “Of yourself<br/></em> <em> Of your kin<br/></em> <em> Of your story </em></p>
  <p><em> “Who kept whole your shell, that you might sing azgrakh? <br/></em> <em> Whose voice spun your thoughts toward truth? <br/></em> <em> Ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk </em></p>
  <p><em> “Whose breath blew your spark to flame,<br/></em> <em> And drew you into the world with love? <br/></em> <em> Ya’rcq”ilnaaRtk, ya’rcq”ilnaanoukxh, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ.” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>There was an unfamiliar word in the refrain… <em> yours, yours, yours… yours, ours, mine… </em>rcq”ilnaa? Egg-something… And then it was so obvious that Tharkay wanted to take flight himself, just like Arkady. “Ahh -- so you are the pack’s rcq”ilnaa… egg-singer?” </p><p>A trill of assent. </p><p>“And… azgrakh?” A series of clicks, or croaks, and a lilting whistle. “The emergence?” </p><p>More or less.</p><p>“So <em> that’s </em> why you know so many languages and things,” said Tharkay. “Like that human song this afternoon.” </p><p>A squelch. </p><p>“No, it’s <em> definitely </em> human -- it’s about <em> war, </em>for pity’s sake.” </p><p>Silent stare. </p><p>“Wait, <em> really?” </em> asked Tharkay. “I suppose I thought dragons were rather… better? than all that?” </p><p>Gherni heaved a huge sigh as if to say, <em> if only.  </em></p><p>“All right, so dragons go to war amongst themselves, sure, but the song is certainly human in origin -- it’s about the campaigns of Tamerlane some four hundred and some-odd years ago, if I am not mistaken. Surely you’re not four <em> hundred </em> years old?” </p><p>She snorted, and thumped her tail on the ground thrice.  </p><p>“Ha!” said Tharkay. “See, even <em> you </em> can’t say for certain, one way or the -- oof!” </p><p>She had sent him sprawling.  </p><p>“All right, <em> fine, </em> if you must be that way,” he said, dusting himself off. “When we make camp in the Zarafshan basin you can find someone from your side, and I’ll find someone from mine, and we’ll see how far back we can trace that tune.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>How was it that after five nights spent at the oldest music-house in the oldest district of the oldest city on the Silk Road, Tharkay <em> still </em> had not heard the <em> one </em> song he was seeking? He had been certain of finding <em> some </em> source of information in Samarkand, but it seemed no-one was interested in the folk tunes of a long-vanquished people. </p><p>Well, and perhaps therein lay the answer: there weren’t many these days who dared speak against conquerors.  </p><p>There were typically two waves to these evenings: the first, with the rich dinner patrons and glittering jewelry; and the second, when the other music-houses in the city had begun to close, and the less lucrative acts -- younger, greener artists; or older, semi-retired ones -- came onstage. Tonight Tharkay had stayed long enough that most of the dinner patrons had left, leaving mostly other musicians, and artists, and poets -- you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a poet, in Samarkand. </p><p>This was his favorite part of the evening: the times when performers played for and <em> with </em> each other, rather than for an audience; and if he were to hear that song, it would surely be during this second shift.  </p><p>He was growing -- well, not ready to <em> give up, </em> precisely, but perhaps a little discouraged -- when the room suddenly went quiet. Tharkay looked up from his pipe to see an unfamiliar musician onstage, carrying an unfamiliar stringed instrument. They sat to tune it -- and the room hung, breathless, on each note -- who <em> was </em> this? They were clearly known to the audience, but Tharkay had never seen them before, in all his years of frequenting this music-house… </p><p>And then they began to play, accompanied by -- wait. </p><p>He had to double-take: <em> surely </em> all of that sound was not coming from those <em> two hands </em> on that <em> single instrument? </em> Where was their drummer? How were they pounding out a beat, <em> and </em> keeping rhythm with the chords, <em> and </em> playing counterpoint?</p><p>And then they started to sing, and he forgot to care. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Come, you masters of war: you who break what we make<br/></em> <em> “You who reap all our riches and do naught but take --”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Their voice was like the karaburan, like thunder<em>, </em> like <em> rage… </em> oh, that <em> voice </em> singing this song, those <em> hands </em> playing <em> this </em> tune… oh, <em> oh. </em>Oh, goodness. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “You who never give nothing except to extract,<br/></em> <em> “You turn truths into lies and hate into fact...” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>...he was a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s Service, now. He was here to <em> recruit more dragons </em> into that service. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Let me ask you one question: is your money that good?<br/></em> <em> “Will it buy you forgiveness? do you think that it should?”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>How to ensure he did no further harm in the process? It was a question Tharkay had wrestled with for years already in service to his employers, balancing his own interest against his conscience, and he had never been quite satisfied with any of the answers he managed to produce. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “I think you will find when your death takes its toll<br/></em> <em> “All the money you gained will never buy back your soul.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>This was typically the final verse sung, even with this tune, but something told him that this particular musician would finish with the older ending… </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “And I hope that you die and your death’ll come soon.<br/></em> <em> I will follow your casket in the pale afternoon.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Tharkay flagged down the barkeep, conscious of the irony of his intended gesture. “I should like to take care of a tab, if I may.” </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “And I’ll watch while you’re lowered down to your deathbed,<br/></em> <em> And I’ll stand o’er your grave ’til I’m sure that you’re dead.” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>How did one kill an empire? </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Much, <em> much </em> later that night -- and after having <em> thoroughly </em> demonstrated his appreciation for the musician’s skill, and voice, and face, and lovely, <em> lovely </em> hands -- Tharkay spoke into velvet darkness. “I’d be very grateful if I might prevail upon your generosity once more this evening.” </p><p>A smile. <em> “Again?” </em> </p><p>“Oh, <em> Heavens </em> no,” said Tharkay, and threw an arm around their shoulders. “No, I had hoped that you might help me settle a… bet, of sorts, regarding a certain song.” </p><p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>
  <em> Khwarazm.  </em>
</p><p>He had a place. A point of origin. A <em> name.  </em></p><p>Gherni was approaching with a solid grey dragonet perched on her back. </p><p>“All right,” said Tharkay. “Are you ready?” He had a name that went back <em>five hundred years.  </em></p><p>Gherni wing-shrugged -- and might have smirked? </p><p>“Who is this?” asked Tharkay, indicating the dragonet. </p><p>“Gherni tlᵜrcq°Indra’kan’llinku tlkᵜilniyoutt°Siv tlᵜRRooushxxlluˀrcq”ilniyaan°Kxhaa,” said the dragonet.  </p><p>He did a double take. </p><p>
  <em> The smaller they are…  </em>
</p><p>“Ah,” he said. “Well, then.” </p><p>Gherni was <em> definitely </em> smirking. </p><p>“Am I to understand, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ, that you are <em> Gherni’s </em> egg-singer?” said Tharkay. He didn’t know whether there was a proper way to address Kxhaa, but -- well, the title couldn’t <em> hurt, </em>could it?  </p><p>“No, dummy,” said Kxhaa. “One’s Singer does not Name; most illogical; how would we learn anything new?”</p><p>“Ah,” said Tharkay. </p><p>“Did you truly wake me for this, Apprentice?” Wing-shrug. </p><p>“And, erm.” Ohhhh, Gherni was enjoying this far too much. “May I ask how you come to know the tune in question?” </p><p>“I was there when QrouykA wrote it,” said Kxhaa. </p><p>“I beg your pardon?” said Tharkay. </p><p>“No begging or pardoning, nope, the original lyrics are in Old Zagh, which was old even in QrouykA’s time, before I was Named --” </p><p>“I <em> beg </em> your <em> pardon?”  </em></p><p>“This would’ve been a fiver and change ago now, up in wossname -- west of the Kyzylkum but north of the Karakum, mhm, mhm, right around when that muttonheaded fucking crawler decided it was <em> his </em> for claiming --” </p><p>“Wait,” said Tharkay.</p><p>“-- mhm, but before they drove us all out QrouykA got up and sang, and there was some squeaky-fingers crawler up there accompanying, never seen anything like it before or since --” </p><p><em> “Wait,” </em> said Tharkay. </p><p>“-- fucked if I can’t remember the <em> name </em> of the place --” </p><p>“Please,” said Tharkay. </p><p>“Gurganj!” Kxhaa’s tail lashed. “Used to be Markanda’s rival, back when it was the capital of --” </p><p>“Khwarazm!” said Tharkay.  </p><p>Twin stares fixed him in place. His heart was kicking like a hare, but -- </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “How much do I know,” </em> he sang, <em> “to talk out of turn? <br/></em> <em> “You might say that I’m young; you might say I’m unlearned…” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>“All right, speak,” said Kxhaa. “Since you asked so nicely.” </p><p>“I submit for your consideration, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ,” said Tharkay, “that part of the essential spirit of this particular song lies in the trading of rhythms and lyrics -- and indeed, roles -- between singer and accompanist, as you say QrouykA did in Gurganj that first time, with a human playing opposite.”</p><p>“Hmm,” said Kxhaa. “Go on.” </p><p>“Then, if I may be so bold, perhaps the germ of the song lies not with one species or the other, but in the collaboration and conversation <em> between </em> musicians in order to create a singular experience, never to be repeated, toward a shared purpose.” </p><p>“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” said Kxhaa, and leapt from Gherni’s neck to Tharkay’s chest.  </p><p>Kxhaa spent the next several weeks draped around Tharkay’s shoulders or clinging to his back, lecturing him in everything from mathematics to poetry to -- yes, music, in Old Zagh, and <em> much </em> further back than he could trace any human lineage -- while dragon after dragon flocked to their camp, for apparently Kxhaa's presence had been the catalyst needed to spur their recruitment efforts.  </p><p>“You might have warned me,” muttered Tharkay to Gherni under his breath. </p><p>“What was that, squeaky?” said Kxhaa. </p><p>“Nothing, ya’rcq”ilnaantlxሄ,” said Tharkay.  </p><p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>“Out of curiosity.” Their fire was down to embers. “How far back can you trace your lineage?”</p><p>Gherni clicked for a beat, and Tharkay began to drum -- just his hands upon the ground beneath them. </p><p>She crooned: </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> Gherni tlᵜrcq°Indra’kan’llinku tlkᵜilniyoutt°Siv<br/></em> <em>tlᵜrcq”ilniyaanuˀRRooushxxll°Kxhaa<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°QrouykA<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°rrrrrrrrrnyki<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°ሄtch<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Lloakxh<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Zighqta<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Tlikiii<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°OkkRo<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Hmaada<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Ikthyoi<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Torሄu<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Qtli<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Siddhu<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Rrrethixi<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°ShhllkAu<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°VasRlneva<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Kሄushh<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Nhuja<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Indusu<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Kaali<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Durga<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Durga<br/></em> <em>tlᵜRRooushxxll°Durga</em></p>
</blockquote><p>Tharkay blinked slowly once, twice. “That <em> can’t </em> be coincidence.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tharkay, as Chekov: SOVIETS<br/>Gherni, as Kirk: IOWANS </p><p>***</p><p>Q) What did Gherni do to get onto Tharkay’s safe list?<br/>Gherni: fuck around and find out  </p><p>~*~Bonus~*~</p><p>Q) so like eggs are basically the dragon equivalent of babies/children, surely there are some specific and more-or-less universal THINGS aka traditions about eggs among wild dragons, like how do they take care of them, and are they all super protective about it?<br/>Gherni: fuck around<br/>Gherni: and find out </p><p>Q) who’d Tharkay hook up with in Samarkand?<br/>Tharkay: lol like I’d kiss and tell </p><p>Q) who’d Gherni apprentice with to earn the rcq”ilnaa title?<br/>Kxhaa: fuck around and find out </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p>"Masters of War" was originally written and recorded by Bob Dylan, though the version linked above is Odetta's. Some of these lyrics are mine and some are cribbed from the original song.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Attestation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Endless Night from the Lion King Original Broadway Cast Recording</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Attestation ; </b>
</h1>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <b>General Chu bears witness</b>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>It had been the coils. </p>
<p>The Russians <em> still </em>had not condescended to take them seriously, and having not much to do besides sit in Temeraire’s pavilion and recover, and the last of the splints having finally come off just yesterday, and -- and -- </p>
<p>Just -- just, fucking, it was -- it wasn’t -- </p>
<p>
  <em> Don’t. Don’t even think it.  </em>
</p>
<p>Tharkay sat with his logbook open on his lap and did not feel sorry for himself. He <em> didn’t.  </em></p>
<p>--<em> but Aji, I need my hands --  </em></p>
<p>Across the pavilion General Chu was napping, and the light was slanting in <em> just </em> right to cast interesting shadows, and the general had folded and coiled himself with <em> such </em>precision -- so completely self-contained; held at once in perfect balance and total relaxation.  </p>
<p>And his eye having been caught, Tharkay had been <em> fool </em> enough to try -- <em> damn it, God DAMN it -- </em> </p>
<p>
  <em> Again.  </em>
</p>
<p>He couldn’t make his fingers <em> close </em> properly, that was the problem --  or else it was he had no strength to grip -- and the last two fingers on his drawing hand were… were numb, or else tingling -- or else <em> burning, </em>as if they’d been plunged into ice water. </p>
<p>...and the pencil fell. </p>
<p>
  <em> Again.  </em>
</p>
<p>At least he managed to pick it up each time. Small victories. </p>
<p>
  <em> -- again, child, again; you must train your fingers to the chords not until you can play them properly, but until you cannot play them improperly --  </em>
</p>
<p>Grandmother had been so insistent about her pianoforte. </p>
<p>
  <em> Again.  </em>
</p>
<p>Perhaps it was an issue of control. </p>
<p>
  <em> Again.  </em>
</p>
<p>Or perhaps his hands would <em> never </em> heal properly, and he would never be able to write, or draw, or --  </p>
<p>
  <em> Again.  </em>
</p>
<p>He couldn’t pick it up this time. </p>
<p>
  <em> Not good enough. Again.  </em>
</p>
<p>He <em> couldn’t. </em> He didn’t have the strength, or else he lacked the discipline -- he wasn’t strong enough for this, he wasn’t enough for this, he couldn’t even <em> die </em> properly -- oh, fuck, <em> fuck </em>-- Tharkay brought his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his forehead in the little dark space he’d created. </p>
<p>He would <em>not</em> weep. Not over this, not for himself. </p>
<p>
  <em> Not good enough.  </em>
</p>
<p>Oh please, <em> please -- </em> मते मते सितला माजु सहश्र बिनति छिके, याहुने लोक उधार ! <em> I beg, I beg, I beg a thousand times…  </em></p>
<p>“‘There is darkness under the butter lamp, though it brings light to distant places.’” </p>
<p>He flinched badly, startled from his -- <em> not </em> wallowing, he had <em> not </em> been wallowing -- for General Chu had cracked one eye and spoken, and he had said… he had said… </p>
<p>It had been in Mandarin, but it was something his <em> aji </em> used to say. <em> And </em> his mother. </p>
<p>And now the general had opened both eyes and raised his head, just a little, to stare down at him. </p>
<p>“I was serving at the mountain border when it happened.” </p>
<p>“नेपालया छत्रपति श्री रणबहादुर, परजान अति दु:ख सिल,” Tharkay whispered -- he couldn’t help it. <em> The people suffered much, when Rana Bahadur was king of Nepal. </em> </p>
<p>General Chu nodded. “Yes. Whether it was for the sake of his Maithili queen or his own personal gain, we never quite learned.”  </p>
<p>“The latter.” The words barely made it past the ache in his throat, the pressure building behind his eyes…  </p>
<p>“We received some of the survivors,” said the general. “The state of them -- what men will do to one another for the sake of greed…” He shook his mane. “There are those who have never forgotten, Captain Tharkay, that the Newars are the first people of the Valley of the Gods.”  </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>---- - - - - - - - - -   - - - - - - -   -     -   --   </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>------ - - - - -  - - - - - - --    - -     </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>-- - - - - - - -     --  -  - - </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Was someone weeping? </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>--   - - - -   - - - -   ---  - -</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>- - - - -     ---- - - - -    -  -  -    -    - </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>--- - - - - - -     - - -      - - -   - - -      -   --   -   - </p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>-- and all of a sudden General Chu had crossed the pavilion and lowered his head to Tharkay’s level. “‘Look from the front, look from behind. Look at your face by yourself.’” Another of his people’s proverbs. “Take heart, Captain Tharkay. We who are mountain-born know what it means to endure. Your mothers are proud of you this day and every other, young warrior, for you are <em> surviving.”  </em></p>
<p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q) so PT must’ve been pretty rough in the beginning, huh?<br/>Tharkay: wow, yep, it was<br/>Tharkay: thanks ever so much for that reminder</p><p>~*~Bonus~*~</p><p>Q) why’d General Chu catch Tharkay’s eye, back in the Vyazma chapter?<br/>Tharkay: idk you kinda had to be there </p><p>Q) Tharkay is constantly managing the emotions of everyone around him and taking care of others, does anybody ever have his back besides Laurence? </p><p>General Chu, as Eliza Hamilton: look at where you are<br/>General Chu: look at where you started<br/>General Chu: the fact that you’re alive is a miracle<br/>General Chu: just stay alive<br/>General Chu: that would be enough<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay: well<br/>Tharkay: that’s just your opinion </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>References: </p><p>Tuladhar, Astha. “Nepal Bhasa Proverbs - with English Meaning and Pronunciation - Part 1.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1Q6yaMkHBM&amp;t=9s Uploaded 5 Nov 2020, accessed Dec 2020.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Veneration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I edited this to I Am Moana (Song of the Ancestors) on endless loop and like it was</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Veneration ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tharkay imparts certitude </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Latch on.” He crouched in front of Sipho. “You carry our things, and I’ll carry you.” </p><p>“Be careful!” <em> Dearest </em> Temeraire. </p><p>Tharkay grinned. “Aren’t we always?” </p><p>“Your wardrobe begs to differ,” muttered Laurence under his breath. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I am glad to have you as a comrade once more,” said Gong Su, just below the wind. “They do much better when you’re around.” </p><p>“Flattered, I’m sure,” murmured Tharkay, and accepted the pipe. “You’ve been at this post a long time yourself, comrade.” </p><p>Gong Su shrugged. “Lung Tien Xiang is without parallel, and his crew are well enough.” </p><p>Tharkay blew out a plume of smoke, one eyebrow raised. </p><p>“The captain does nothing to harm our interests, nothing which requires me to take action, and I… like playing the cook,” Gong Su admitted. Looking out over the moonlit sea, he leaned to rest upon his elbows on the ship’s rail. “Making things, <em> helping… </em>it’s almost like doing halfway honest work.” </p><p>Tharkay smirked as he passed the pipe. “What’s <em> that </em> like?” </p><p>“You’ll see,” replied Gong Su, accepting it with a smirk of his own. “You’ll want to stay, too.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Are you being careful?” </p><p>“No!” he shouted down, and continued climbing.</p><p>Sipho giggled: below them Laurence was attempting to explain sarcasm to Temeraire.  </p><p>Upon reaching the first spar they installed themselves facing one another, books open -- for after seeing his logbook Sipho had insisted upon one of his own, and having brought a few spares Tharkay had seen no reason not to grant it to him. </p><p>“All right, young master Sipho,” he said with mock seriousness. “Let us begin our study of the rigging.” </p><p>The sun shone; the wind blew; and Tharkay hummed a simple tune as he worked, keeping one eye on the page and one on the child in front of him, occasionally giving voice to a phrase or two in an absent-minded sort of way. </p><p>“I like what you’re singing,” said Sipho after a while. “It’s nice.” </p><p>“It is a song my aji taught me when I was younger than you.” Probably -- it was hard to tell, but Sipho was likely older than he looked. “Would you like to learn it?” </p><p>How could a single smile blaze like the sun? </p><p>So while they straddled the spar, trying and failing to accurately draw the knots in the rigging while the ship swayed and tossed, Tharkay taught Sipho the old Newa rhyme line by line:  </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> I shall perform arati before the venerable Ghana. Day and night I shall invoke the name of Dasabala.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> I shall do worship with grains of unbroken rice, sandalwood powder, flowers, incense, rasa, and lamps.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> I shall play the cymbals, the mrdanga and the dholaka, and, along with the damaru and other musical instruments, I shall blow the conch.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> Know the year by joining mountain, ocean, and jewel. Folding my hands again and again, I shall say my prayer.  </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“What does it mean, ‘know the year by joining?’” </p><p>“The words for mountain, ocean, and jewel sound like three of our number words,” said Tharkay. “Eight, four, and five, which tells us the year the song was written.” </p><p>“This song is from the year <em> eight-four-five?”  </em></p><p>He chuckled. “Not quite. Our calendar differs from that of the British by some eight hundred and eighty years; the song dates back therefore not to eight hundred and forty-five, but to --” </p><p>“Seventeen hundred and twenty-five,” said Sipho. </p><p>Tharkay raised an eyebrow. “That was very well done, Sipho,” he said, taken somewhat aback. “Very well done, indeed.” </p><p>How, <em> how, </em> could a single smile <em> blaze </em> thus? Like a fire in the hearth, like the sun on the sea? </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>***</p><p>
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</p><p>The cot really was <em> much </em> more comfortable with another person to serve as padding. It was almost as good as sleeping with Gherni -- Tharkay could throw his legs over Laurence’s to take pressure off his knees, or curl around him to stretch out his back, and the solid weight of Laurence’s head on his chest always seemed to help quiet his racing thoughts: the ones which cycled through his mind late at night, when there was nothing to distract him and no way to make himself sleep. </p><p>“He asked if they were my <em> slaves, </em>now.” It seemed as if Laurence had those nighttime thoughts, too; and here with Tharkay, in the safety of the complete darkness of the hanging cot in the cabin in the ship on the sea, he apparently felt comfortable voicing them. “And the worst part, the very worst part is -- is that he was not wrong to expect it.” </p><p>“No,” murmured Tharkay, and combed his fingers through Laurence’s hair. “No, he wasn’t.” It was a gift to receive these heart-whispers, these anxieties and doubts which Laurence let surface nowhere else.   </p><p>“I felt my heart crack right in two. They’re children, Tenzing, <em> children… </em> I tripped over my tongue and -- and said something about duty, and privilege, and -- and <em> securing their future, </em> as if, as if that were the -- I did not know how to -- children, they’re <em> children, </em> and it is my honor to claim them as <em> mine… </em> oh. <em> Oh.”  </em></p><p>Tharkay’s breath stilled. </p><p>“I hadn’t said it aloud, before.” Laurence’s grip on him tightened. “But it’s -- Tenzing, they’re <em> my children, </em> they… in sooth I should be proud to stand as their father if they would have me, but certainly I am conscious that I -- I could never <em> replace </em> , of course; but nevertheless, they -- they are <em> mine: </em> they have no-one else in the world; their care and wellbeing are now <em> my </em> sole responsibility, mine alone, and <em> … </em>O God,” Laurence croaked. “What if I’m bad at it?” </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>Ohh, <em> fuck -- </em> there were so many things he might say to that, <em> so </em>very many -- he might point to the dozens of lads Laurence had fair raised, in the Navy; or young Emily Roland, for that matter; and not least the twenty-ton dragon sleeping somewhere above their heads. </p><p>But something inside him was melting -- <em> what happens now to the boy? </em> -- or else dissolving -- <em> he is your son -- </em> or else sublimating? -- <em> has he no other -- </em> and surely, <em> surely </em> Laurence could feel his heart pounding, tucked against him as he was -- oh, <em> oh --  </em></p><p>Tharkay took in a shaky breath, blinked very hard, and caught Laurence’s hand on its way up to his face. “You’re not, Will,” he whispered; and bringing their hands to lay clasped upon his chest he kissed Laurence’s brow once, twice. “I promise.” </p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p>
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</p><p>“What are those -- mrdanga, dholaka?” </p><p>“They are Newa instruments -- hand drums, of differing pitch and tone.”</p><p>Sipho’s eyes were wide. <em> “Really?” </em></p><p>“Yes,” said Tharkay, “and the damaru also.” </p><p>“You have <em> that many different drums?” </em> </p><p>“Yes.” Surely there was a reason Sipho was so interested, so amazed… “They don’t really drum in Britain, do they?” </p><p>Sipho shook his head. “Not unless it’s to give orders, and they use sticks.” </p><p>Tharkay waited. </p><p>“I miss drums, I miss drumming,” said Sipho quietly. “Demane is really good, we -- we used to play together at night, all the time. When we were by ourselves, before we found Chebe, it was how he would help me sleep when I got scared.”   </p><p>“Ah.” Well, then. “Laurence has told me of the dog who saved the whole world, but I never knew his name.” </p><p><em> “Her </em>name.”</p><p>“Her name,” Tharkay repeated.   </p><p>“Demane let me name her. It means -- luck, or chance. It was lucky we found her when we did, lucky she lived, a’cos she was a runt nobody wanted, just like us.” </p><p>Something inside him was melting.</p><p><em> “You </em> wanted her.” Tharkay caught Sipho’s gaze and held it -- pinning him in it, keeping him there. “And you and Demane, you wanted each other, you took care of each other, you <em> survived </em> together. That you are both alive is unshakable evidence of this truth: that you are <em> loved, </em> Sipho, you and Demane both, each by the other, and ever have been. You have <em> never </em> been unwanted, never, and you never will be, do you understand?”  </p><p>Something inside him was sublimating, or dissolving. </p><p>“And now -- well. Temeraire considers you <em>his;</em> he has thoroughly and publicly claimed you both, and Laurence --” he swallowed hard. “Laurence has done the same. You will never be alone, Sipho, never -- you have your brother, yes, and now you also have Temeraire, and Laurence, and -- and, well, you… you have me, too, for as long as I’m around.” </p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Q) what songs did Tharkay teach Sipho on the ship?<br/>Tharkay: idk just some old tunes</p><p>Q) what song was Aji singing back in the Berezina chapter?<br/>Tharkay: fuck you what are you implying </p><p>~*~Bonus~*~</p><p>Q) ok what’s Gong Su’s deal, like what’s the traumatic backstory, is there a jilted lover or sworn enemy or what<br/>Gong Su: shit i just wanna get stoned and make food<br/>Gong Su: like can i live  </p><p>***</p><p>Reference:<br/>Lienhard, Siegfried. Songs of Nepal: an Anthology of Nevar Folksongs And Hymns. Honolulu: Center for Asian and Pacific Studies, University of Hawaii , 1984.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Recitation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ea'alah (Family) by Spillage Village + many collaborators. </p><p>This one is... a lot. Content warning for brain injury symptoms.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Recitation ;</b>
</h1><p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Our men expel waste</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> One two three four five --  </em>
</p><p>Forward, one in front of the other. <em> Five comes after four comes after three comes after two comes after one two three four five two three four five two three --  </em></p><p>Walking was hard. </p><p>Walking through camp <em> harder.  </em></p><p><em> One, two, three… four, five -- </em> too familiar, too many familiarities, too many too many spins and soldiers -- <em> two, three, four, five -- </em> and the tents and the paths and the sick sick sick, where, no -- <em> no --  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- killing soldiers; most of whom are starving --  </em>
</p><p>Someone was speaking. </p><p>“-- to find another way to resolve the issue; for you must be aware, Captain, that this will result in further disruption to the trade --”  </p><p>“Do you refer, sir, to the Company’s <em> illegal funneling </em> of opium into China, against the express injunctions of the local authority and in direct opposition to the Government’s stated policy?” It came from his mouth, but -- <em> one, two, three, four, five. </em>Spins and sick, sickening spins, spickening sins -- who was speaking, who was he speaking to? </p><p><em> Hammond, </em> his mind said. That was the man’s name, yes, he remembered it, he remembered it all, he remembered it <em> all </em> right now right <em> here </em> it was <em> all right here --  </em></p><p>“-- yes -- yes, that; and as I’ve said our duty is to ensure that the balance of power remains weighted solely in the direction of --” </p><p>
  <em> -- Berkley will approach from their forward direction, and you will cut off their avenue of retreat-- </em>
</p><p>“I beg your pardon; I prefer not.” -- <em> Laurence, what are you doing -- </em> </p><p>Hammond tripped. “Captain, perhaps I’ve not been clear: for the sake our efforts on the Subcontinent and elsewhere, <em> including </em> the war, our interest lies in --” </p><p>“Hundreds are dead, our credibility with our heretofore most powerful ally significantly impaired, and my --” <em> friend, </em> his mind supplied. <em> Bedfellow. Shieldmate. </em> “-- fellow officer taken captive; one of our own men, and used in the worst imaginable way -- sir, what <em> possible </em> precedence could your interest take?” </p><p>“It is, of course, most unfortunate that Tharkay --” </p><p>“Captain.” Sick flip, flip sick, slick fip -- sickflipspinslipslip -- <em> one, two, three, four, five.  </em></p><p>“-- yes, that <em> Captain </em> Tharkay was --”  </p><p>“Unfortunate,” said Laurence flatly, and clenched his stomach against the heaves which came with it. “When the sole reason for his capture was to force a confession against evidence and assurances given by <em> me; </em> which I gave at <em> your </em> sole behest.”  </p><p>“As I said, a great tragedy outside our control, which nevertheless cannot outweigh our significant interest in the Company’s continued dominion --” </p><p>“Profit must never precede lives.” <em> One, two, three, four, five. </em> “Do not make the mistake of asking me to fight for gain and glory, Mr. Hammond; you will not like the result.” </p><p>Hammond stopped short for a moment, and Laurence -- <em> one, two, three, four, five -- </em> Laurence did not stop walking. <em> Could </em> not stop walking. <em> Two, three, four, five.  </em></p><p>And then Hammond was at his shoulder again, having hurried to catch up. “You -- can you -- you just -- could you, could you<em> -- </em> Captain, I beg -- might you <em> please </em> at least promise not to make any <em> more </em>trouble for the Company or Crown, over this?” </p><p>“Mi madewan kun daimakhu.” Sliding out with no conscious thought -- how did he have these words, in this language he did not know?   </p><p>“I beg your pardon?” Hammond was looking at him with faint concern. “That was gibberish, Captain; are you certain you’re all right?” </p><p> “No.” <em> -- it is a proverb, in my mother tongue --  </em></p><p>“I beg -- ‘no, you’re not all right?’ or ‘no, it isn’t gibberish?’” </p><p>“Yes,” said Laurence. “You must excuse me.” </p><p>
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  <em> If there is no fire, there won’t be any smoke. </em>
</p><p>One, two, three, four, five. </p><p>So many familiarities, too many familiarities, two many camps too many times too too many memor familiar remembories in the sick flip spinning -- <em> up, down, one, two, three, four for five for one for all for you --  </em></p><p>Where -- <em> where -- </em> it was a camp, it was a camp, it was a camp with tents and his feet were carrying him -- <em> how </em> did his feet know where to go, when he did not even know where he was? </p><p>Spin spin dizzy spin -- pitch and roll, sea legs, <em> see legs, balance, this is how: this is: how I learned: this how is learned I as a girl, my dear -- dear my son, my --  </em></p><p>Tenzing. His feet were carrying him to <em> Tenzing, </em>his feet his knees his -- </p><p>
  <em> -- knees over ankles, hips over knees, shoulders over hips, head over shoulders --  </em>
</p><p>Pitch, roll, here -- <em> here -- </em>and there, feet going there -- </p><p>
  <em> -- head over shoulders, shoulders over hips, hips over knees, knees over ankles --  </em>
</p><p>-- to <em> Tenzing. </em> Fuck, Tenzing, Tenzing, <em> Tenzing.  </em></p><p>The pavilion, the tent, the tent flap, the tent flap and Tenzing and the -- <em> someone -- </em> someone who was <em> not </em> Tenzing -- fuck. Breathe, breathe, collect, focus. <em> Focus.  </em></p><p>“-- mum and mummer.” That was Granby’s voice, coming from inside. “Seems all right now, but ‘tweren’t no telling if he even knew he <em> had </em> a sealskin, locked away somewhere.”</p><p>“Mind your head as you come in, Laurence,” said -- Tenzing, <em> Tenzing, Tenzing. </em> </p><p>“What?” said Granby. </p><p>“I hope I am not interrupting.” Decorum. Duck in. Ohhhhhh.... </p><p>“Oh,” said Granby. </p><p>“Not at all,” said Tharkay. “You are a good friend, John.” </p><p>Fuck fuck fuck fuck spin flip fuck spin spin sick sick slick, stand up, stand <em> up, </em> knees over feet over fuck fuck <em> no --  </em></p><p>“He’s gone.” <em> Tenzing. </em> Dearest. </p><p>Knees on the ground, hands on the ground, hands grabbing for the pot and the <em> sick -- </em> bile. Bile in his mouth, in the pot, in the back of throat and <em> nose </em> and <em> no no no </em> the heaves <em> hurt -- </em>eyes closed, eyes water, eyes bile bile sick -- raise up -- </p><p>Hiss, from Tenzing -- back down: too close to -- too close, back away, back up and <em> then </em> you can raise -- “Mind your <em> head, </em> Will.” </p><p>“You’ve <em> said.” </em>Thank fucking Christ to not be nice, here. </p><p>“So <em> mind </em>it.” Thank fucking Tenzing for being. </p><p>Heaves over, for now. Eyes wet. “I believe the stock is ready for you, Captain.”  </p><p>“I look forward to contributing my share of the meat and potatoes.” Thank Tenzing for being. Thank Tenzing for <em> here. </em> </p><p>--<em> will see that the egg is placed in his chambers when we reach Peking, so all that is precious to us will be in one place; and they may keep each other company besides --  </em></p><p>Temeraire, truly spoken. </p><p>
  <em> All that is precious to us…  </em>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Delicate operation, this meat and potatoes. Pot under platform, platform under Tenzing, Tenzing too weak, still -- himself behind, himself <em> around, </em> himself to hold and to cradle and -- and no more spins. No more sick flips, with his nose buried in crows-wing hair. Could breathe. Could <em> be.  </em></p><p>“Long or short one today, do you think?” Could even <em> speak </em> without losing. </p><p>Tenzing, fevered and bright -- thread of bright humor -- thread of bright -- “ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα --” </p><p>Dearest. <em> Dearest. </em>“I shall make myself comfortable.” </p><p>So light, so frail, so knotted and gnarled with pain -- so <em> strong, </em> like this, so <em> here, </em>so thank fucking Tenzing for being, thank fucking Tenzing for eyebrow, for this -- </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Speak, Memory --,” </em> said Tenzing, <em>  <br/></em> <em> “Of the cunning hero,<br/></em> <em> The wanderer, blown off course time and again<br/></em> <em> After he plundered Troy’s sacred heights.”   </em></p>
</blockquote><p>This game, this <em> game, </em> so deeply satisfying -- Tenzing, reaching into his being and pulling up threads of taffy soul, weaving them together in -- in flowerish, nourishing, flourishing pattern --  had not even <em> known, </em> but his spirit, Tenzing was fundamental to his -- his turn to speak, his turn now, and Laurence opened his mouth and the words were <em> there --  </em></p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Speak,<br/></em> <em> Of all the cities he saw, the minds he grasped,<br/></em> <em> The suffering deep in his heart at sea<br/></em> <em> As he struggled to survive and bring his men home<br/></em> <em> But could not save them, hard as he tried.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>How did he know these words, how were his memories these words, how did Tenzing <em> know </em> these words were his memories <em> and </em> his feelings, the feelings behind the control -- the well beneath the rock -- the truth behind the shield, leviathan in the dark --</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “The fools,” </em> rasped Tenzing, <em> “-- destroyed by their own recklessness<br/></em> <em> When they ate the oxen of Hyperion the Sun,<br/></em> <em> And that god snuffed out their day of return.” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>How did he know, how did he <em> know? </em> How did Tenzing behind shield trust, swim with them and <em> know </em> and <em> see </em> and <em> say </em> even like this, even fevered and bright, how did he, how did he -- even now, even <em> now </em> with the disgusting shocking unbearing intimacy of meat and potatoes? </p><p>Those eyes, kestrel eyes pain-filmed fever-slick, delivering truth. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Of these things, <br/></em> <em> Speak, Immortal One,<br/></em> <em> And tell the tale once more in our time.”   </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Laurence’s turn to speak, to chant: he had the words, the words were <em> there, </em>the words were drawn cold from the well behind the shield beneath the rock -- </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “By now, all the others who had fought at Troy-- <br/></em> <em> At least those who had survived the war and the sea -- <br/></em> <em> Were safely back home. Only Odysseus<br/></em> <em> Still longed to return to his home and his wife.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>A wince from Tenzing, and a new smell -- new memories, fresh memories -- <em>so </em>many memories with this smell, and still Laurence had these words to speak, and the words kept him <em>here,</em> kept them both here, kept them from slipping away into the muck -- </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “The nymph Calypso, a powerful goddess-- <br/></em> <em> And beautiful--was clinging to him<br/></em> <em> In her caverns and yearned to possess him.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>They kept asking things of him, demanding things, <em> using using using -- they will use you, Laurence, as they already have -- </em>he was lost lost lost but he had these words and these rememberingwords and these words of memories of Tenzing, and Tenzing, and Tenzing was speaking, </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “The seasons rolled by, and the year came<br/></em> <em> In which the gods spun the thread <br/></em> <em> For Odysseus to return home to Ithaca.” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Home? Where was home? What was Ithaca? Speaking, singing, chanting, his turn to speak… and he had the words. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Though not even there did his troubles end,<br/></em> <em> Even with his dear ones around him. <br/></em> <em> All the gods pitied him, except Poseidon,<br/></em> <em> Who stormed against the godlike hero<br/></em> <em> Until he finally reached his own native land.” </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Another groan and harder wince, from Tenzing -- <em> Tenzing </em>-- arms, arms hold, arms cradle, lips to hair, lips to temple to trembling temple Tenzing -- Laurence lost the words, lost the chant… “And Zeus speaks -- and -- quicksilver Hermes, sent to warn the man who murdered Agamemnon and took his wife…” …no words. No rememberings. “I cannot… ”  </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> “Wise Athena glared at him with her owl-grey eyes --” </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tenzing, Tenzing, compass Tenzing. </p><p>Crows-wing hair and salt air and bright-dark eyes, laughter and stars and sea -- Laurence opened his mouth, and the words were there: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “Yes, O our Father who art most high-- <br/></em> <em> That man got the death he richly deserved, <br/></em> <em> And so perish all who would do the same.<br/></em> <em> But it’s Odysseus I’m worried about, <br/></em> <em> That discerning, ill-fated man. He’s suffered<br/></em> <em> So long, separated from his dear ones <br/></em> <em> On an island that lies in the center of the sea.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p><em> -- applause, bows -- I am at your service -- </em> at your service, always, always, <em> always </em> Tenzing -- Tenzing, Tenzing speaking now: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “A wooded isle that is home to a goddess,<br/></em> <em> The daughter of Atlas, whose dread mind knows<br/></em> <em> All the depths of the sea and who supports<br/></em> <em> The tall pillars that keep heaven and earth apart. <br/></em> <em> His daughter detains the poor man in his grief, <br/></em> <em> Sweet-talking him constantly, trying to charm him <br/></em> <em> Into forgetting Ithaca.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Never. Never, never -- Ithaca was <em> Tenzing -- </em> never forget, never, never, <em> never -- </em> no, no, <em> no -- </em> Laurence had the next words, they came up, they welled up: without Tenzing, without Ithaca Tenzing he…  </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “But Odysseus, <br/></em> <em> Longing to see even the smoke curling up <br/></em> <em> From his land, simply wants to die.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>How did he <em> know?  </em></p><p>Dearest. <em> Dearest.  </em></p><p>Tenzing, responding with next… </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “And yet you <br/></em> <em> Never think of him, Olympian. Didn’t Odysseus<br/></em> <em> Please you with sacrifices beside the Greek ships<br/></em> <em> At Troy? Why is Odysseus so…” </em> splat, <em> splat, </em> splat “ <em> ...odious, Zeus?” </em> </p>
</blockquote><p>So <em>weepy</em> he was, these days. So laughter-wept, speaking next: </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> “Quite a little speech you’ve let slip through your teeth, Daughter.”  </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tenzing, speaking the next line, speaking it to <em> him, </em> speaking it of him to him speaking it <em> into him --  </em></p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “How could I forget godlike Odysseus?<br/></em> <em> No other mortal has a mind like his, or offers<br/></em> <em> Sacrifice like him to the deathless gods in heaven.”  </em></p>
</blockquote><p>Tenzing. <em> Tenzing.  </em></p><p>How did he <em> know? </em> How did he <em> give? </em> How did he <em> give </em> even like <em> this?  </em></p><p>Tenzing, too hot, too frail, too light -- Tenzing, bright eyes, singing -- “Seeeeeeeeee-ta-laaaaa --” </p><p>Happened like this. One moment, one breath -- then the next and elsewhere. Hold, just hold: just here, just with. </p><p>“Some Baron or other gifted you an illustrated copy, at a very early age.” Tenzing, back here again, spinning clouds of unremembered soul into threads of story truth. “You made your family and governess read it to you over and over and over, until one day your mother came upon you in the byre teaching it to the sheep page by page, though you were too young to read yet: you had learned it by heart, and from then on you dreamt only of --”  </p><p>“-- the wine-dark sea.” -- finishing together, thoughts <em> together, </em> thoughts <em> not alone.  </em></p><p>“Yes.” Tenzing, <em> Tenzing, </em> crows-wing hair, owl-dark eyes, brightest soul, keeper of memories, keeper of his truths. “We had a contest, aboard the ship. I believe I’m finished.” </p><p>“Which won?” There was no rememory of victor… </p><p>“We were the judges.” Tenzing. <em> Tenzing, </em> Tenzing, <em> Tenzing, </em> only. Only one to know. Only one to <em> see.  </em></p><p>Gentle hands wiping. Hands could be gentle. Hands did not have to break, did not have to <em> kill. </em> Hands could <em> help.  </em></p><p>Hands could hold, and hands could carry, and hands could tuck blankets and touch touch touch to stay <em> here. </em>Here, please, just here, just this, here in the quiet and dark and safe, here with Tenzing, singing, singing… Tenzing drifting back to sing to monster once more… </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> “...But come now, <br/></em> <em> Let’s all put our heads together and find a way<br/></em> <em> To bring Odysseus home.” </em> </p>
</blockquote><p>Fuck. <em> Fuck. </em> Breaking. My soul, my story, my truth -- Tenzing, <em> Tenzing, speaking my --  </em></p><p>“Can-des-vaaaaaaaaaaaa…” Oh, oh <em> Tenzing. </em> Fever-bright, dark-bright, too fever-hot, touch, hands could <em> touch, </em> hands could soothe, hands could <em> help…  </em></p><p>“Tenzing.” Words, words could keep him here. “Truth-keeper, bright soul, you carry the heart of mountains, Tenzing, you are wondrous.”</p><p>“Baaaaaaaa-…” </p><p>Tenzing, <em> Tenzing. </em> So close, it had been <em> so close… </em> he had -- they had -- <em> no, no, not here, not that, you are not that man, not that man, not that man because of Tenzing…  </em></p><p>Small sound from the bed -- eyes to eyes, hand to cheek -- look to check. “Yes?” </p><p>“Sipho and Temeraire.” </p><p>“Tenzing.” <em> So </em> weepy. <em> “Tenzing.”  </em></p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hammond: look i’m really not lookin to catch smoke over this so can you just stfu for ONCE<br/>Laurence: don’t start none won’t be none motherfucker </p><p>Laurence: *emotional honesty and vulnerability*<br/>Tharkay: *poops*</p><p>Q) ok so clearly Tharkay needed help with bathroom things -- how’d our men handle that?<br/>Laurence: excuse you that is a very personal question </p><p>*** </p><p>References: </p><p>Homer., &amp; Lombardo, S. (2000). Odyssey. Indianapolis: Hackett.</p><p>Tuladhar, Astha. “Nepal Bhasa Proverbs - with English Meaning and Pronunciation - Part 1.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1Q6yaMkHBM&amp;t=9s Uploaded 5 Nov 2020, accessed Dec 2020.</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Remembrance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is some of what I listened to while writing and editing this. I headcanon this artist as bildungsroman!Tenzing’s cool bhaiya who helps him reclaim his Newa roots: https://youtu.be/6j9ocEzXYYg </p><p>^^ Arko Mukhaerjee is just… the most wonderful musician I have recently encountered. Go look up his video “Rajamati” to hear him singing in Newari (he himself is Bengali, I believe) </p><p>Anything *set off with asterisks* is lifted directly from canon.</p><p>**edited February 2021 -- thank you to all the readers who commented with confusion on the first draft -- I've done a slight rewrite and added a couple more sentences of context that I hope clarify what is happening and who knows whom and what and from where!! y'all are the besttttt**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <b>Remembrance ; </b>
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</h1><p> </p><p>*Tharkay’s memory of the plan of the grounds was good enough to bring them near the Tswana, not without a little circumnavigation;* but he knew that Laurence would follow nevertheless, and it afforded Granby and Laurence the chance to lull their guards with talk of Austerlitz and honorable battle while he subtly guided their party through the gardens. </p><p>And now they were almost there -- just one more…  </p><p>*Tharkay glanced round, when he had made another turn, and Laurence saw he had put them upon a narrow walk, between two pavilions.* <em>Dearest</em> Laurence, who needed no signal at all -- from whom he needed no signal at all, to know that he had seen it. </p><p>Tharkay meandered with the rest, keeping himself between his party and the pavilion neighboring that of the Tswana, or trying anyway; he steered them so that they drifted that way little by little, until they were within view of two dragons: *bright sky-blue in color and of a sleek configuration not so far from Temeraire’s lines, with large but tightly furled wings and banding across the ridge of a rounded nose not unlike a snake; they had long fangs hanging over their jaws.*</p><p>
  <em> Look up, look up, look up…   </em>
</p><p>They had to get close enough to cause enough diversion for Laurence to give their guards the slip -- close enough, yes, but not <em> too </em> close... Tharkay took a few steps deeper into the pavilion, toward the sky-blue dragons -- <em> more likely to come back whole from it than anyone else here -- </em> and scuffed his heel against the floor. </p><p>Laurence looked up at the noise and caught his eye, mouth twisted in wry accusation: <em> really? this is your plan?  </em></p><p>One of the dragons raised their head to look; *hissed inward, a long and threatening whistle of breath, and said, <em>“British.”*</em></p><p>Tharkay smirked at Laurence and raised an eyebrow: <em> better run, Englishman.  </em></p><p>*Granby, anxious over playing his part, had been bent with excessive attention to examine the pipes; he jerked his head up, took one look at the dragons, and said, “Oh, Lord, they are Bengal,” and turned reaching for Laurence even as one of them brought a slashing, many-taloned claw down.* </p><p>*Laurence dived aside and took himself rolling into the brush, while Granby fell back in the opposite direction towards the path. The claws passed with tearing force between them, carrying away two of the hot-water pipes. Clouds of hot steam erupted whistling into the air, and the dragon jerked back its talons with a hiss of pain.* </p><p>Tharkay retreated deeper into the shadows of the pavilion to watch the tumult unfold -- hoping he might go unnoticed long enough to slip out, to find another exit, to -- to come face-to-face with a pair of hostile eyes set in an emerald-sapphire face: <em> be still.  </em></p><p>
  <em> You are prey.  </em>
</p><p>…fuck. </p><p>And then -- movement at the corner of his eye, and a different dragon emerged, a dragon who was -- who was <em> tiny, </em>smaller even than Kxhaa, very nearly the smallest dragon he’d ever seen, almost as small as -- </p><p>Wait. <em> Wait.  </em></p><p>A flash of opalescent wing -- <em> sandalwood breeze </em> -- the dragon’s talons, no bigger than an eagle’s and inlaid with tiny jewels, gripped his shoulder while a long slender muzzle sniffed his hair. “We have met before, I think.” Indigo scales, tipped in gold around her eyes: ohhhhhhhhh yes, it <em> was </em> the smallest dragon he’d ever seen, pulling back to stare hard into his face. “But you looked different, then.” </p><p><em> Be still. Breathe. Be still. Be still. </em>“Yes.” </p><p>“You were her lover, yes? The one for whom she collected our stories?” </p><p><em> Breathe. </em>“Yes.”</p><p>“I sang for weeks while those scribes wailed and moaned, trying to keep up,” mused the indigo dragon. “Cannot remember when last I had so much fun.” </p><p>-- <em> you will have more stories, our stories, to take with you --  </em></p><p>-- and <em> that </em> broke through his frozen mind, for -- oh, <em> oh, </em> but he had thought -- <em> ohh, Preeti, lovely Preeti -- </em> he had not <em> known, </em> had not <em> realized </em> -- “I am honored, aunty,” said Tharkay. “I carry your stories with me always, and sing them where I may.” </p><p>Liquid gold, inspecting him closely. “Why come you here in this guise?” -- <em> won’t you take that off, while we’re here --  </em></p><p>“We have someone in common, you and I.” <em> Breathe, breathe. </em> “In her name I would assure you that we likewise share a common enemy, and beg you spare my yellow-haired comrade and his friend.” </p><p>“You know this one, heartsinger?” The emerald-sapphire dragon’s hostile eyes had not moved. </p><p>
  <em> Calm, still. Be still. Inhale. Look from the front, look from behind…  </em>
</p><p>“I know this one, heartsung.” <em> Exhale. </em> “Fetch us some tea, will you? And make sure Shyama doesn’t kill her comrade.”  </p><p>And <em> now </em>the gaze lifted. “But -- but Falakji --” </p><p>“Come, ma,” said Falak, beckoning with a wing. “If nothing else, I should like to hear you back up your claim, and sing what you may of our stories.” </p><p>Lumanti dipped her head in a brief approximation of a curtsey. “I am honored, aunty-ji.” She followed the tiny dragon to the back of the Bengali pavilion -- <em> flowing water: breathe, walk, float -- </em> where they seated themselves among the many floor cushions, and -- <em> rooted. Calm and regal. Don’t fidget. </em> </p><p>
  <em> Breathe. Look at your face by yourself -- </em>
</p><p>This was a moment at which she would have chosen arrange her skirts around herself, had she been wearing any: smoothing and tucking, making her intentions clear through body language and gesture. She found herself wishing she had pleated silk to toss over her shoulder, the end of a saree to tuck in at the waist, but -- well, good English wool had to suffice.  </p><p>-- <em> and try not to muck it up --  </em></p><p>Lumanti crossed one ankle behind the other, flipped her braid forward to fall over her chest, and did not fidget. </p><p>Instead she sang herself hoarse under Falak’s appraising eye: verse after song after stanza after verse after song from the volumes Preeti had collected and entrusted to her, while the other dragons of the Bengali party loomed over her like vengeful gods. </p><p>She did not muck it up. </p><p>Much. </p><p>She -- <em> you had better not! -- </em>she even managed to sip her tea with grace, when it arrived. </p><p>“You did well, ma,” said Falak. “I am glad to see my efforts were not wasted.” </p><p>“I am honored, aunty-ji.” Good strong Assam tea -- ohhhhhh, <em> yes, </em>fragrant and subtle.</p><p>“Tell me.” There was a glint in Falak’s eye, one she did not particularly like. “What think you of --” a wing sweep “-- all this?”  </p><p>-- <em> that I do not in the least endorse Napoleon’s designs -- and if you do? --  </em></p><p>“I think that it is very generous, if arrogant, of Bonaparte to play host to such an august assembly,” said Lumanti slowly. “It is rare that one has the opportunity to make so many new connections all at once, and at another’s expense besides.” </p><p>“See?” Falak twisted to address their audience. “<em> She </em>understands; why can’t you?” Another venomous glare, from the emerald-sapphire.  </p>
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</h1><p>The teacups were empty; her bladder was full; and Laurence was surely finished speaking with Moshueshue, if he had managed to find him. It was time for Lumanti to take her leave, and fortunately Falak seemed to agree. </p><p>“Anything to pass along to our mutual acquaintance?” Falak asked on the way out. </p><p>Lumanti smiled with teeth. “Indeed,” she purred. “Pray tell her I said ‘fuck the Empire,’ if you would; she’ll know what it means.” </p><p>Laughter like bells. “Ahhhh, what an unexpected pleasure to have crossed paths with you in this forsaken place, Lumanti Cloudspeaky. Kxhaa will be delighted to hear you yet survive.” </p><p>Tharkay stared: how did Falakji know --?  </p><p>“Oh, darling child,” said Falak with delicious warmth, and no little mirth at her expense. “Surely you’re not <em> surprised?”  </em></p><p>“Only to learn that Kxhaa yet thinks of me; I am honored, aunty,” Tharkay managed -- and bowed, and fled.   </p><p>“That was fun.” That lilting voice drifted still, following behind as she descended marble stairs, trying not to break into a run. “Let’s attend, if we’re still close by.” </p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Falakji, as King Bumi: all old people know each other, don’t you know that? </p><p>Q) is Tharkay one of those cats who always does the lecture reading?<br/>Tharkay: i have never had the luxury of mediocrity </p><p>*** </p><p>Hey, </p><p>Thanks for reading. Thanks for being here. Each part of this series has turned out to be about me processing my shit in ways I could never have imagined, and it feels good to know that something so deeply personal has resonated with -- well, anyone, really. So... thanks to everyone who's shared that experience with me. If any part of this fic resonates with you, I'd love to hear about it. </p><p>See you soon,<br/>nb***</p>
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